The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
by highlyfunctioningmikyla
Summary: John Watson is the new teacher at St Bartholomew's school, when he notices Sherlock 'Freak' Holmes, a troubled young 15 year old student in his year 11 class. He wants to help Sherlock, but gets a little more than he bargained for. Sherlock/John AU
1. Prologue

**Hello readers**

**Micky here**

**Here is my new story. Sherlock, again**

**The title is 'The Boy With The Thorn In His Side', yes it is a song by The Smiths, I just thought it suited the story well **

**Plot: John Watson is a newly qualified science teacher engaged of Mary Morstan starting his new job as a chemistry teacher at St Bartholomew's School in London. On his first day he meets Sherlock 'Freak' Holmes, a 15 year old anorexic sociopath in his year 11 class. John wants to help him, but Sherlock isn't all he seems and John gets a little bit more than he bargained for. **

**Rating: M, for swearing, smut, slash, drug use, self harming and child abuse. **

**School AU **

**I like reviews (hint hint) **

**Enjoy!**

**Love Micky xx**

The Boy With The Thorn In His Side

"The boy with the thorn in his side

Behind the hatred there lies

A murderous desire for love."

John gazed down at the boy.

The brilliant, amazing, stupid, genius, mad, crazy, fragile boy.

Broken.

_For John_

The words shone out, red and staining, like a putrid curse John couldn't get rid of

_For John _

_For John_

_For John_

Even when he closed his eyes and looked away they still stayed there. Like they had been etched onto the inside of his eyelids.

_For John_

Like they would never go away.

_For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John. For John._

John bawled his fists over his eyes to try and make it strop.

It was all for him. All of it.

All for him.

Just him.

Not Jim or Mycroft.

For him.

Jim had been right. It was all his fault.

Mary had been right. He was obsessed.

Greg had been right. He should have stayed away.

But how could they be right?

They were wrong.

Wrong!

But if this boy died.

If this brilliant amazing boy died.

Did that make John a murderer?

Would it have been the same if John had just taken a gun and blown the boys brains out?

John would never do that.

Never.

_For John. _

The horrific etchings made bile rise in John's throat as he stared.

"He is only fifteen! He is a child." Jim's angry words echoed in John's mind.

He was a child living in an adult world, and that was wrong.

It would have been better for both of them if John had never become a teacher, he should have just stayed a medical school. John would have become a doctor like he had always aspired and Sherlock would never have ended up like this.

Sherlock meant so much to him.

So much.

But it was illegal.

Immoral even.

_For John. _

The two words burned like fire.

_For John._

_For John. _

_For John. _

_FOR JOHN. _

"The boy with the thorn in his side

Behind the hatred there lies

A murderous desire for love."

**The first chapter is on the way.**

**Please review. **


	2. Hand in Glove

_Three months previous_

"Greg Lestrade." he tallest, and quite frankly the slimiest, of the men introduced themselves.

"John Watson." John replied, shaking Greg's hand.

Greg eyed John up and down, in his loose fitting cotton shirt and baggy trousers, John had never really been one for dressing up or buying expensive suits just for working "I'm maths." Greg explained.

"Biology." John replied.

Greg nodded and smiled "First school, eh?"

John nodded "Yeah."

Greg patted John on the back "Teaching's not all that bad, but don't let them sense your fear or they'll be absolute monsters." he said, obviously referring to the pupils

John knew it was a joke but it didn't help him calm down one bit.

In all honesty John had never even wanted to be a biology teacher, he'd never even thought about become a teacher, to be a doctor was the reason he had spent countless agonising hours studying science and discovering what did this and why that happened, managed to scraps A* in all the subjects he needed, had put all his savings from since he had been very young towards medical school, even bugged his surgeon father to get him work experience at a clinic; and then Mary had come along, and John had traded all of those long years of desperate hopes and dedicated work for a diamond engagement ring. And so John's life long hopes and ambitions of becoming a doctor had been scrapped and now he was going to teach other people how to achieve the things he had wanted but would never have. He knew that when he had pulled out of medical school that he would regret it, but what could he do? If he couldn't be a doctor at least he got to marry Mary Morstan, the girl of his dreams.

"John, this is Molly Hooper, teaches Chemistry." Greg introduced him to a young pretty woman who shook John's hand smiling.

"So John, what group of little monsters have you got first?" Molly asked, obviously just trying to make conversation.

John wracked his brains trying to remember the timetable he and Mary had gone over countless times so John wouldn't have to be constantly checking. She was like that, Mary, always trying to as organised as possible and hating when people weren't prepared, that was one of the reasons John had noticed her the first time they had met. "Err…year elevens." he answered.

Greg and Molly's cheery smiles slid off their faces so fast it was unnatural and they exchanged a worried look.

"Something wrong?" John asked, slightly worried himself now by their reactions.

Greg's smile flashed back onto his face quicker than it had vanished, but it looked different, faked, artificial, false "No, nothing's wrong." his voice sounded different too.

"Really?" John raised his eyebrows, slightly disbelieving "It's just you looked a bit worried?"

Another uneasy glance exchanged between Greg and Molly told John that he was correct and there was definitely something on quite right.

"You sure? Only you look worried." he repeated.

"Oh no, it's all fine." they both protested weakly. They were both truly terrible actors.

"It's just…" Greg trailed off, obviously trying to find the right way to phrase what he was about to say "Year elevens are a little bit of a handful." he explained.

"How so?" John asked.

"Well…"

Another worried glance.

"There are a couple of _certain _pupils that will back chat and contradict you." Molly explained.

That didn't seem to bad "Like who?" John asked.

"Oh you'll know which ones they are." Greg added "But just let him know who's in charge and you'll be absolutely fine, scouts honour." he raised his hand in a mock salute.

_Him _John noted _So by certain pupils they mean one certain pupil, a boy. _

Greg seemed to have realised he had said this too because he opened his mouth to say something.

"Greg." Molly placed a hand on Greg's shoulder "Ten minutes till first period."

"Okay, thank Moll." he turned to face John "You know where you're supposed to be, right?" he asked, pulling on his expensive looking suit jacket.

"Uh-huh." John nodded.

"Great." Greg picked up his black rucksack that seemed to be on the point of bursting and flung it over his shoulder "Good luck with the year elevens, kay?"

"Thanks." John grinned.

John let the other teachers leave the staff room first before leaving it his self, they all seemed to have a superior walk, like the owned the school and knew it and weren't afraid to show it, John would have to work on that. As he left the staff room he spotted a gaggle of pikey boys smoking cigarettes just outside the school gates, he wrinkled his nose as the smell wafted over, even as a teenager smoking had never really appealed to John, he had just seen it as a very slow very expensive way of killing yourself, probably something to do with coming from a long line of doctors and surgeons which he supposed was the whole reason for him wanting to be a doctor in the first place. He held his breath as he passed the boys, not wanting to breath in the awful gas that emitted from the ends of those horrible burning tar-filled sticks.

It was lucky that John's classroom was only a thirty second walk from the staff room, it meant John didn't have to worry about getting lost which he found he was rather prone to.

John surveyed his new classroom.

It was _okay _he supposed.

The cinder block walls hadn't been plastered, just painted a slightly lighter shade of grey to their original factory colour, the walls were bare apart from a couple of display boards that had work pinned up that was so old John probably would have been about the age of the students who had done it. The large mass-seating desks had millions of scratching and scribbles etched all over them in a multiple of different colours and hand writings. John ran his finger along a couple of them as he inspected the desks, there were many swearwords and drawings only teenage boys would find funny being the hormone crazed apes they were. _SD loves AA _was only of the first ones he saw, it had been calved into the table not so long ago judging by the freshness of it in short fat writing in a pink biro pen. A couple of centimetres below that in navy blue biro and slightly scruffier writing was written _SH IS A FREAK, _whoever SH was John felt sorry for them. There were two whiteboards in the room, one was your typical classroom white board that required actual pens to be written on and the other one was one of these new projector white boards that were controlled by a computer. John flicked the switch on the computer and a couple of seconds later the screen lit up. Username and Password boxes flashed up on the rather dirty looking screen, john typed _JWatson _into the username and _Hamish _into the password. He smiled to himself, not many people use their middle names as their password but John never told anybody his middle name, Mary probably didn't even know his middle name.

He could hear students starting to queue up in the corridor outside the classroom. He steadied himself slightly, trying to calm himself down. "Calm down." he hissed to himself, angry at his own emotions "Ten year ago you were them." he reminded himself. _Ten years in an awfully long time to fifteen year old teenagers _the little voice in the back of his head reminded him. He checked his watch, lessons started ion two minutes.

John approached the door. _Breath in, breath out. _One of the things Mary used to say when ever she was feeling stressed. He pulled the door open "Would you like to come in now."

One by one the students filed into the room. John knew they were top set but none of them looked very smart, in fact most of them looked quite the opposite. He let them sit where they wanted, there was really no point in making a seating plan, John had always hated teachers that had given them a seating plan and the last thing he wanted for this class of rather large teenagers hating him..

There was a clatter of chairs scraping on the already worn down floor and the load rustle of bags being opened and stationary being pulled out.

"Now everyone." John addressed the class as a whole once the clatter had died down "My name is Mr Watson and I'm your new-"

"Biology teacher." one of the boys finished for him.

The boy was sitting on the far left side of the front table, almost directly in front of where John was standing. The first thing John noticed about him was his eyes which were large and stood out in milky white face, pale blue veins creeping up around his temples and dark circles around his eyes that just seemed to make the colour more prominent, John wasn't sure if it was blue or grey but whatever colour it was it was it pierced through you like ice. After the eyes he noticed how thin the boy was, Christ he looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks, months even, all of the joints in his knobbly skeleton-like fingers were visible and his high cheek bones jutted out from his face that you could probably cut yourself if you slapped him, his school jumper and trousers, that seemed to fit every other boy in the class snugly, hung limply on his skeleton-like body, although he was skinny it didn't seem to stop him being rather tall for a fifteen year old boy. He sported an elegant mop of jet black curls that seemed to flow like water when he moved his head. He was a very attractive looking boy, intelligent looking but wild at the same time.

"And you are?" John addressed the boy.

"Freak Holmes." the boy introduced himself.

There was a couple of titters from other students in the class.

John's brow furrowed "Is that what people call you?"

The boy, 'Freak', nodded and held out his skinny hand for John to shake "Sherlock Holmes." he re-introduced himself.

John eyed Sherlock's outstretched hand, not quite sure what to do. _This must be SH _he thought remembering the calving on the table he had been observing mere minutes ago.

An outbreak of giggles erupted from a group of slutty looking girls in the middle of the room.

John ignored them. Reaching out he grasped Sherlock's hand and shook it, the bones digging into the soft flesh of John's hand "Nice to meet you Sherlock."

Sherlock's face broke in a smile "Same to you John."

John stared "H-how do y-?"

The whole class simultaneously groaned

Sherlock's smile widened "I know you're twenty-five years old, you had cornflakes for breakfast this morning, and that you were training to be a doctor but you dropped out of medical school so you could get marri-"

"Shut-up Freak!" a curly haired girl next to Sherlock with coffee coloured skin elbowed his sharply in the ribs.

Sherlock didn't seem phased by this "Good summer Sally?" he asked, sneering at the girl.

"Guys! Break it up!" John hutted in before the girl, Sally, could retaliate.

Sherlock and Sally glared at each other as if they wished the other one nothing but ill before both turning back to face John.

"Anyway." John addressed the rest of the class "Like I was saying,"

John sat on the red fabric sofa in his rather dark living room, thinking. Just thinking. Not about the hellish year sevens or the agonisingly load year tens, but of the skinny curly haired boy in year 11. How had he known so much about John? John had never met him before, surely he would have remembered ever meeting a young boy like that? He had introduced himself as 'Freak'? How often did he gat called that? Did he have any friends? Enemies? Siblings? Did his classmates bully him? That was definitely what it looked like. Why was he so skinny? Did he eat properly?

"Hey John." Mary came into the room, placing shopping bags on the floor.

"Oh…hi Mary." John smiled at his fiancée.

Not many people would notice Mary in a crown, she was one of those people that just blended in. She wasn't beautiful, she was plain as a white blank page, but she was pretty as any picture to John.

"Good day?" she asked, bending sown to peck his lips briefly.

"it was fine." he answered simply.

"You sure? You look a bit…agitated?" she asked, looking slightly concerned.

John waved his hand in the air, as if to dismiss this idea "It's fine, it's nothing really."

"Tell me."

John bit his lip "It's not a big deal."

She pouted slightly "Come on John, I want to know."

"Ok." John sat up slightly "It's just there's this boy in my year eleven class, and I think he might have some kind of eating disorder."

Mary nodded in understanding "You gonna' try and talk to him about it or something?"

John shrugged "I don't know ig I should get involved."

Mary smiled "Well, you do what you think's best, okay?"

John nodded.

"Good." she kissed him again "I'm going to make spaghetti, kay?"

Another nod.

John wasn't really listening the her anymore, his thoughts had drifted back to Sherlock.

He wanted to find out what had happening to this boy. And if there was something wrong he wanted to help. Did he care about this boy? He'd only spoken directly to him once, the rest of the lesson he had just taken notes in his exercise book.

He would ask. He had decided to help this boy.

**Please review **


	3. Ask

**Contains a lot of strong language **

Chapter 2

Wednesday sixth period was the next lesson John had with the year elevens.

He didn't see Sherlock around the school very often, in fact he had only seen the skinny black-haired boy twice out of lessons. The first time had been by the art rooms which had come as a shock to John, and the second time had been on the playground, he had just been sitting there cross-legged on the gravel floor while the other students ran past him, not noticing. He hadn't really been doing anything, juts sitting there with a pair of taped up white earphones in his ears, mouthing the words to a song only he could hear.

John didn't even know why he was looking out for Sherlock. All the students seemed to hate him, and it seemed all the teachers did too. John couldn't fathom why, he didn't find Sherlock bratty or arrogant like the other teachers described him, John found Sherlock fascinating, like John was an over exited child and Sherlock was the most exiting animal in the zoo.

"Hey Greg?"

Greg looked up from his roast dinner, Wednesday being the day the school canteen served roast chicken, although it didn't really taste much like chicken to John, it was to bland and dry "John, you ok?"

John sat down in the chair opposite Greg "I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away." Greg smiled expectantly.

John paused for a moment "About one of the students in year eleven."

Greg's smile faltered, he seemed to know exactly what John was going to ask next and exactly who it was about, and it was obvious that he wasn't to happy about it "Which one?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

Greg's smile was now totally non-existent "What about him?" he asked slightly bitterly.

Greg was being blatantly obvious that he harboured an intense dislike for Sherlock as well as any other teacher in this bloody school.

"Why don't you like him?" John asked.

"He told me my ex-wife was cheating on me." Greg explained.

John couldn't help himself "Was she?" he blurted before he could stop himself. He mentally slapped himself. He couldn't help it, it had just slipped out.

Greg looked slightly taken aback by John's outburst "She was."

John immediately felt guilty, he really, really shouldn't have asked Greg that, not a good way to get people to like you "I'm such a dick, I'm sorry." he apologised.

Greg chucked humourlessly "It's fine, we're not together anymore it wasn't really working out between us anymore." he smiled "But seriously John, you don't want to get involved with Sherlock Holmes."

"Why not?" John asked, even more curious now.

Greg stood up, picking up his now empty plate "Just don't get involved John. Sherlock Holmes is bad news and he's best left alone." he turned and walked away leaving John feeling utterly dumfounded. Greg was a fucking _teacher _for Christ sakes! he was supposed to solve problems. Not completely ignore them and pretend they weren't happening. Surely Sherlock Holmes had just as much right to be noticed than any other teenager in this damn school. He felt a rush of pity towards the skinny curly-haired boy that was ignored by everybody. He got up and left the canteen.

Xxx

There was a clatter of chairs as the year eleven got to their feet, stuffing books and pencil cases back into their bags.

"Remember, I want that homework on my desk by Monday, and don't forget to revise!" John reminded the class. He had just spent a hour going through their new topic while the class took notes, occasionally daring to glance at Sherlock who had just sat through the whole lesson scribbling his book, not raising his hand or talking at all while a group of rather rowdy, rather unintelligent, boys flicked bits of paper and glue at him from across the classroom. John didn't know how he could stand it, he knew he certainly wouldn't.

The classroom was now completely empty now, apart from John, Sherlock and a pair of rather geeky looking girls.

"Sherlock?"

The boy looked up, startled, almost as if he couldn't believe John was talking to him "Yes sir?" he was speaking quietly and his voice sound slightly horse, he probably hadn't spoken since he arrived at school.

The other girls left the classroom, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

"Would you mind staying behind for a moment, I would like to talk to you about something?"

Sherlock's icy eyes flicked to the door, like he was a cornered criminal looking for some means of escape.

John got up and walked around to the front of the teacher's desk. Sherlock lowered his eye line and tilted his curly head a couple of millimetres to the right, almost like he was x-raying John.

"I really can't stay John. I-"

"Sherlock, I am your teacher and you will call me Mr Watson." John interrupted him before he could go any further.

"Mr Watson." Sherlock corrected himself, looking slightly annoyed at John "I need to leave now!" he looked like he was shaking. Was he scared of something? What would he be scared of?

"I just want to talk you about your eating habits." John explained, trying to relax himself as much as Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped shaking and stared at John like he couldn't quite believe what John had just said "My _what_?"

John was really panicking now, he could feel beads of sweat blossoming around his temples "Only you look rather malnourished." he explained hurriedly.

"I'm not malnourished!" Sherlock protested, sounding slightly angry.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Sir! I need to leave now!"

Sherlock was completely wrecking John's plan. Sherlock couldn't leave, John needed to talk to him, John needed to find out what was wrong with him.

"Okay Sherlock, you can go, but I want to talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

Sherlock nodded variously, his curls bouncing up and down "Thank you sir." he grabbed his tattered bag that had been on floor at his feet and flung it over his shoulder as he darted from the classroom.

John sat on the tabletop for a moment, trying to think.

He looked like he was in a hurry? Hurry for what? Things at home? Things outside of school? He had looked scared. Maybe he was trying to avoid something? Or someone?

_You should follow him _the wise little voice in the back of his head stated rather bravely.

_NO! _he argued with himself _that would be stalking _

_But you want to help him _the voice argued back _How are you supposed to help him if you don't persevere? _the voice was starting to sound rather annoyingly like Mary. He got enough of that in the real world and now she was in his head too? Great! Bloody brilliant!

He ran his fingers through his sandy hair.

_Follow him John! _he told himself_._

He sprang into action, not bothering to garb anything he darted out the room after Sherlock.

Xxx

Sherlock Holmes hated walking home from school. In fact to be completely blunt and honest he hated everything about school, period. The lessons were utterly tedious, the teachers were all stupid morons and his classmates were all hormone-crazed idiots. Well at least there was one thing good about school, Mr John Watson. Sherlock didn't know what it was about his biology teacher that fascinated him so much. His cheerful school boy face? He crooked boyish smile? He reassuring tone of voice? His lovely - _Oh shut-up Sherlock! _

He took a long swig of the cigarette clamped tight between his lips, inhaling the toxic fumes deep into his lungs. Sherlock knew he's get a slap round the face later that would probably give him a bruise for stinking of cigarettes, but he didn't really care. If he was going to be slapped and then tormented about it by his classmates then so be it, I mean, it's not like he wasn't used to it. And besides he needed cigarettes to think. He needed to think.

"Oi Freak!"

He froze. Fucking hell! _Don't turn around _

"Hey Faggot." laughing followed these words.

_Don't turn around. Don't retaliate. It's just what he wants. Do NOT turn around! _

"Good summer Faggot?" more laughing.

Sherlock balled his fingers into clenched fists, stupid John Watson for making him late. This could have been avoided. _Don't turn around! _His thoughts screamed, but he ignored them. He turned slowly.

As he thought it had been Anderson followed by about six of his football squad friends. Sherlock couldn't help but notice how much they had all ballooned over the summer holidays, and not just up but out as well, they all looked like massive squares. He believed the term was 'hench'. Their size just seemed to make Anderson look smaller than he already was. Despite the fact that Anderson was the smallest out of all of them they all seemed to be in complete awe of him, like they were all pathetic little lost puppies that liked to follow him around. Sherlock couldn't fathom why, Anderson was the biggest wanker of the lot.

He couldn't do anything as they approached him, he was trapped, helpless, alone, seven (well…six and Anderson) against one. All he could do was brace himself for what he knew was coming.

"Hey there cunt." Anderson smacked him round the head.

_Oh at least TRY to be more original in you insults Anderson. I mean, it's not like I've heard that one five billion times before. _Sherlock thought "Ah Anderson, you and Sally taking _another _break, I hear?"

That wiped the smirk off his smug little face.

They both glared at each other.

"Danielle will be pleased." Sherlock grinned.

Anderson kicked him sharply in the shins, making him wince slightly, but he didn't back down.

Danielle was Anderson's girlfriend from another school. In fact if you were counting Anderson's current girlfriends there was: Danielle, Beth, Katie, Haley, Sian and Emily. Anderson had somehow managed to conceal to all of them that he was a using sick-minded little man whore who didn't care in the slightest about their feeling and just wanted their sex. Sherlock couldn't understand how all the girls in school, and other schools, could possibly fancy him, especially extreme slut Sally Donovan. He supposed Anderson and Donovan were both the same type of person, the type of person you expected to get to at least third base with on a fist date. Sherlock had even lost count of how many girlfriends Anderson had had just in the last six months, there were just so many of them, and he boasted relentlessly about how many girls he's slept with. But what Sherlock didn't get was why people admired him for it. Anderson wore his pride like a crown on gold and jewels, and people _liked _him for it! It just didn't make any sense to Sherlock at all. Unlike the doting girls and the admiring boys, Sherlock saw the monstrous creature beneath.

"Go on." Anderson sneered.

All of his cronies seemed to pounce like wolves, their fists, elbows, knees and feet simultaneously colliding with Sherlock. He tried to cry out but already large sausage-like fingers and closed themselves around his mouth, muffling his strangled cry for help. He jammed his eyes shut and drew his limbs up close to his body in a feeble attempt to protect his vital organs.

But then they were gone. Vanished, just like that. Like they had scattered into thin air.

"Sherlock!"

His eyes were still glued shut but he recognised the voice straight away. Mr Watson? John?

"Sherlock, are you okay?" he felt worried hands grab his wrists and gently prize them from his vice-like lock of protection. He sounded worried. Oh God, how bad did he look? Last year he could remember most clearly having two black eyes and a swollen lips for nearly a week and a half because of Anderson and his pathetic bodyguards.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" the biology teacher repeated, still sounding worried, but slightly calmer than before.

Sherlock opened his eyes and groaned. His whole body throbbed like hell.

John smiled slightly at the boy. He'd be fine by the next morning, maybe a couple of bruises around his jaw area but other than that nothing seemed to be wrong. God, he sounded like a doctor.

"You followed me?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still slightly clenched in pain.

John felt his cheeks go slightly pink "I did, I was worried about you."

"You were _worried?_" Sherlock couldn't quite believe it "About _me?_"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

John shrugged. He didn't even know the answer to that. "Come on." he grasped Sherlock's arm and hauled him to his feet. He couldn't help but notice how bony Sherlock's skinny arms were, it scared him. He helped Sherlock hobble to the nearest wall and propped him up against the bricks. It was very hard to find an empty street in London, those boys must have been following Sherlock until he was alone before mounting their brutal and utterly unfair attack.

"Do you want me to drive you home?" he blurted before thinking.

Sherlock gazed at him. Had his annoyingly fascinating biology teacher just offered to drive him home or was he going mad? "Excuse me?"

John's cheeks turned an even brighter shade of pink "Well, I've got a car , if you want I could drive you home." John _did _have a ca. It was old and cheap and unreliable, but it got him from A to B. Mary hated it and was forever bugging him to get a newer one, but John didn't mind it, it didn't really get put to much use anyhow John usually got the bus to work. Thank God he had taken the car today.

"Err…ok, I guess I could do that." _Yes! Yes! Yes! _And he wasn't going mad!

"Ok then." John grasped Sherlock's arm again. Thank God Sherlock hadn't walked to far, the school was only just around the corner.

The school car park was relatively empty so they didn't need to worry about looking strange what with the new biology teacher supporting a limping year eleven student, and not just any year eleven student, Sherlock Holmes, the boy everybody hated.

John's old red Ford was parked close to the gate.

"Three previous owners." Sherlock pointed out as soon as he was up close to it.

John gazed "How…?"

"One of them was a friend of yours who gave it to you when he got a new one." Sherlock added.

"How do you do that?"

Sherlock shrugged "Just look at it."

"I look at it."

"Yeah, but you don't see it."

John thought about this for a second "You know my name?"

Sherlock smiled, oh how he loved it when this type of thing happened "There's a label on the inside of your jacket saying J Watson." he pointed out.

"You could have got anything from that, how do you know it's not James?"

"Welll, I was going to guess James." Sherlock admitted.

"Why didn't you?"

"You don't look like a James, you're definitely a John, I was right wasn't I?"

John nodded, still gazing "You were." he opened the door for Sherlock "So where do you live?"

"Baker Estate."

John nearly dropped his keys "You live on _Baker Estate!" _

"Uh-huh." Sherlock nodded, smile slightly to himself. Oh how he did relish these moments when reacted like this.

Baker Estate was one of the shittest places in the counrty to live. In fact it was probably THE shittest place in the country to live. It consisted of six blocks of studio flats that nobody had been arsed to come up with names for, just A,B, C, D, E and F. there was something wrong with the heating system that meant the residents were either permanently swelteringly hot or freezing cold, the hot water never worked, so there was a consistent supply of cold water, the windows had probably never been cleaned, the whole building was infested with insects and damp and the electricity only worked half the time. There was a skate park and a car park and a children's playground, none of which were used very much by the residents. Sherlock didn't care, he's lived there since he was eight year old, nearly half his life. Sure it was dark and damp with faulty heating and hot water that was always cold, sure it stank like pis and sure there were drug dealers living every few doors, but it was home. Home sweet home.

"Why do you want to hep me?" Sherlock broke the silence as they drove.

John was still slightly speechless from trying to get over the fact that this boy, this smart fascinating brilliant boy, lived on Baker Estate. He had been expecting Sherlock to be one of those only child kids living in six bedroom houses with rich parents, now living on the dodgiest estate in London where the whores and the druggies lived. "I don't know." he answered truthfully.

John pulled up outside a rather battered sign reading 'Baker Estate', well it would have said that if somebody hadn't spray painted 'Wanker' over 'Baker' in florescent pink.

"Thank you John." Sherlock unclipped his seat belt and was half way out the car before John stopped him.

"Listen, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him, slightly surprised that John was _still _associating himself with him, obviously not many people spoke to him. It broke John's heart to know that this boy was so alone in the world.

"Sherlock, just in case you want to talk to anybody, about anything, anything at all, you can talk to me."

"I can?"

John nodded "Whenever you need anything, I don't care what it is, you can talk to me, and I will listen, I promise."

The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched and he smiled a tiny little smile "Thank you John, I'll bear that in mind."

"Good." John drummed his fingers on the steering wheel "So, I will see you in Friday's lesson."

Sherlock clambered out of the car and poked his head back in "See you then." he said before closing the door.

Sherlock watched the car as it drove away, the smile slowly sliding off his face. Why was he so confused? If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes hated it was being confused! He kept getting an annoying warm sensation in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought about his biology teacher.

Sub-consciously, his feet began to carry him to block b where his flat was.

He liked Mr Watson. He liked Mr Watson very much. He was the only teacher, no screw that, the only person in the whole school who was actually _nice _to him. Nobody was ever nice to him. He was bloody Freak bloody Holmes for fuck sake!

Was it possible that he _fancied _John? Sherlock was bisexual. He knew he was, he'd known from a young age. It was one of the main reasons he was ridiculed at school. Fucking homophobic little cunts. He did live with three bisexual people after all, maybe it had rubbed off on him. Well if he was anything like the people he lived with he was screwed.

John's face swam in front of his eyes.

Why did he have to be so fucking complex? Everybody else was simple? Why couldn't he be just like everybody else? Then Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be confused about these weird feelings growing inside him.

Sherlock's sub-conscious had brought him all the way to his front door. 221, block b. 221b Baker Estate.

**Soooo, whatcha' think? Please review and tell me **


	4. Still Ill

Chapter 3

John didn't see Sherlock on Thursday. He looked for him, but he was nowhere to be seen, and Mrs Smith , who taught English, was in a considerably better mood than usual which probably meant Sherlock wasn't in school. However John did see Anderson, skulking around like he owned the place, trying to look tough with an exceptionally slutty year eleven girl named Tina seeming to be glued to his mouth. John had now officially concluded that Anderson was the biggest dickhead in the whole school in fact, probably the biggest dickhead in the whole of London. He was a rude, arrogant, disgusting little man whore, and people like him shouldn't be allowed to mix with normal civilians. John's negative opinion of Anderson really hadn't been helped with his involvement in the unfair, unprovoked, brutal attack on Sherlock on Wednesday.

Back to Sherlock again!

John was starting to worry if he was becoming obsessed with the boy. He had been trying to find out as much about Sherlock as he possibly could. He'd asked other teachers, all of which apart from Miss Hooper had told him to stay well clear of him, he'd driven round the Baker Estate for a whole two hours in the hope of catching a glimpse of him which had been a complete waste of two good hours because he never showed, and even looked him up on the school's database.

All of his grades were very impressive and he would undoubtedly go on to achieve A* in all of his examinations. John had found marks from pervious test, his personal attendance record (which was rather poor considering his high grades) and scans of coursework and essays he's done. John noted down that Sherlock was unrepentantly exceptionally good at art and music, all of his work for that was outstanding, melancholic and rather morbid, but very good none the less.

Honestly, it was like he was turning in a fucking stalker!

It wasn't until Friday's lesson with the year elevens that John was able to see Sherlock again. It was just the same as every other lesson: the students came in and sat down, Sherlock sitting in his usual place at the front, the whole class took notes in their books while John taught them, occasionally a couple of them asking questions. John couldn't help but notice how injured Sherlock looked, when he'd seen him just after the fight with Anderson on Wednesday he'd been convinced that Sherlock would be fine. This boy most definitely did NOT look fine. There were bruises along his jaw bone as john had predicted there would be. But there was more. Just below his right eye was a patch of dark purple bruising, and yellowing bruises a little to the left of his right cheek bone. He hadn't got them from the fight, John knew that for a fact. So where had he got them from? Maybe somebody had caught up with him later that day, but it hadn't been Anderson, John had been keeping a rather close watch on him ever since he'd witnessed Anderson's attack on Sherlock. They definitely weren't there on Wednesday, so where had the come from?

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up from packing his book away in his bag "Yes John?"

"Would you mind staying behind for me?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as the other students left the room whispering about Sherlock's use of Mr Watson's first name and him being ok with it "Sure."

John waited until all the students had left the classroom and him and Sherlock were completely alone before he spoke. Sherlock waited expectantly for him to speak, his breath slightly bated.

"I…" John began "Sherlock… what's your favourite colour?" oh crap!

Sherlock's eyebrows mashed together and he stared at John, a puzzled expression on his marble-like features "Err…what?"

"I just want to get to know you." John tried to explain "You can sit back down." he indicated Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock sat, dumping his bag on the floor beside him and John crossed round so he could sit next to Sherlock in Sally Donovan's normal seat.

"Blue." said Sherlock simply.

"Excuse me?"

"Blue. My favourite colour is blue." he explained.

"Oh right, me too."

There was a moment of rather awkward silence.

"John?" Sherlock asked, slightly tentatively.

John didn't know why but he preferred it when Sherlock called him John rather than Mr Watson, it just felt better, more natural, like him and the boy were equals. If it were any other student this wouldn't be the case, but Sherlock was different, Sherlock was special. "Yes Sherlock?"

"Why are you being nice to me?" it was barely a whisper. He sounded so fragile and innocent, like he was scared John might react badly to the question. Like John might lash out at him or yell at him.

John looked into his young face. His blue-grey eyes were so different from his white beaten and bruised face. His face was so young, whereas his eyes were old. Sherlock Holmes had the eyes of an old man. They were the oldest and saddest eyes that John had ever seen, much older than John himself. They were the eyes of somebody who had seen many things in their life, awful things such a young face shouldn't see.

"Tell me Sherlock," said John, deciding to answer the question with yet another question "How many people are nice to you?"

"Not many." Sherlock admitted honestly.

"And I was just wondering, would you like me to be your friend?"

The corner of Sherlock's thin white lips pricked up slightly in a miniature smile "I'd like to have a friend."

"Good." John held out his hand for Sherlock to shake.

Sherlock completely ignored John's outstretched hand, he leaned towards him and wrapped his arms around his teacher in a tight embrace, not caring the tiniest bit that John's hand jabbed him painfully in the stomach.

John was taken a back by this, but before he realised what he was doing he wrapped his arms around his student and hugged him back, rocking slightly from side to side soothingly.

That's what friends do, right?

They broke apart and smiled nervously at each other.

"You're so skinny." John pointed out "When was the last time you ate something?"

Sherlock had to think about for a moment "Err… Monday… I think."

John's worst fears were officially confirmed "For God sake, you need to eat something Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugged him off "I don't need to eat." he said rather placidly.

"If you think that then obviously you've got some kind of eating disorder."

"I don't have an eating disorder!" Sherlock protested.

"Well, obviously you do. Here," John reached into his pocket and pulled out the sandwich that Mary had packed him for lunch "It's marmite." he explained "Love it, or hate it?"

Sherlock stared at the sandwich like he had never seen one before "I'm one of those in-between-ie people."

John laughed slightly "Me too." he handed the sandwich to Sherlock "My girlfriend hates it." he chuckled "she's always giving it to me so she doesn't have to eat it."

"She's not your girlfriend." Sherlock pointed out, taking a bite of the sandwich.

"Huh?"

"She's your fiancée, not your girlfriend."

"How do you do that?" John couldn't help but ask.

Sherlock grinned but didn't answer, taking another bite of the sandwich.

John couldn't help it any more "How did you get them?" he blurted, indicating the bruising on Sherlock's cheek and the black eye.

Sherlock shrugged and chewed the sandwich "I was smoking." he said once he'd swallowed.

"You shouldn't smoke, Sherlock."

"Yeah I know," he'd obviously heard it all a million times before "but it helps me clear my head so I can think properly." he explained with a mouth full of sandwich.

"But that doesn't explain how you got all them." John added.

"Jim doesn't like it when I smoke, says it makes the whole flat stink." Sherlock explained.

"Who's Jim."

"Oh I live with him, he's kinda like my adopted father, he took me in when my parents died."

"Your parents _died_?"

"Yeah when I was eight."

"Do you miss them?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, just slowly shook his head from side to side.

This was a lie. A down right lie. John knew it was, and Sherlock knew he knew.

"But anyway," Sherlock continued "Mycroft sent me to live with Jim because he's my godfather."

"Who's Mycroft?"

"Mycroft is my brother." John couldn't help but notice the bitter tone in Sherlock's voice when he said these words "I hate him, he's a dick."

"You and your brother don't get on then?" John asked, completely ignoring Sherlock's use of swear words in school.

Sherlock shook his head "No. Never have, probably never will."

"Why?" John could barely contain his curiosity.

He shrugged again "We're just different I suppose. And anyway I haven't seen him in four years, he sends me presents on Christmas and my birthday and we have the same parents and that's about as far as mine and his relationship goes."

"So, Jim hits you then?" John gulped, trying to get back to the more important matters.

"Yeah, only when I do bad things, which is a lot." he said it so calmly it was unnatural "Anyway he goes easy on me 'cause I'm his godson, it's Irene you've got to look out for."

"Who's Irene?"

"Jim's girlfriend, her and Seb live with us."

"Who's Seb?"

"Jim's boyfriend,"

Wait, what? "Jim has a boyfriend _and _a girlfriend?"

"Yeah, they have a slightly untraditional relationship." Sherlock grinned.

John snorted "Slightly?"

They both laughed "So, what, they have like a three-way relationship."

"They call it a Threesome, and they have those." he added.

"So, they hit you when you do bad things?"

"I wouldn't say they hit me _excessively, _just when I do things they don't like."

"Like what type of things don't they like?"

"Well they don't like it when I smoke," he indicated his own bruised face "They don't like it when I get into fights with dicks at school or around our estate, they don't like it when I cut myself…"

"You WHAT?"

"Shit!" Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he clapped both his hands over his mouth. _Crap, crap, shit, shit, fuck, FUCK! _That was one of the biggest secrets of his life, and there were many others, and he'd just blabbed it to his incredibly attractive biology teacher! _FUCK MY LIFE! _

John felt sick to his stomach. This boy, this poor brilliant boy, cut himself? This was definitely a whole lot worse that John had first anticipated "Sherlock," he gulped "do you cut yourself?"

"NO!" Sherlock immediately protested.

"Sherlock?"

"Well, not for a while." Sherlock admitted, looking at floor, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Sherlock," he reached out and grasped the boy's pale skinny hand in his own "Don't, please don't."

Sherlock looked up into John's dark blue eyes "I'm a sociopath. What do you expect?" he mumbled.

"You're a sociopath?"

Sherlock inclined his head and mouthed the word 'yeah'

"Listen Sherlock." John placed comforting hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder.

Sherlock looked back up at him "Yes John?"

"I want to help you, will you let me help?"

Sherlock paused before slowly nodding.

"Thank you. Right well, tomorrow is the weekend, so maybe Monday you could come back here at lunch time and we could talk, would that be okay with you?"

"I could do that." Sherlock agreed, his voice a little loader now than the barely audible whisper it had been before.

"Good." John smiled.

"Thank you John."

Neither of them knew how it happened, but John was suddenly hugging Sherlock, his arms wrapped around his skinny student like nothing else in the world mattered. Why was he doing this? He'd known this kid a week. A bloody WEEK! But Sherlock was different than anybody else he's even met. He was clever and brilliant and venerable, and John would not allow him to be made a target. No, he had to protect Sherlock and make sure nothing bad happened to him.

"I have to get to art." came Sherlock's slightly muffled voice from John's shoulder.

John looked at the clock and started. Ten minutes till next lesson already.

He pushed his and Sherlock's bodies apart, placing both hands on the boy's hollow cheeks and pressing their foreheads together, Sherlock's soft black curls tickling his face.

"You be careful, try to stay out of trouble before Monday. Don't get into fights, try to avoid giving Jim a reason to hit you and please eat something." he told him.

Sherlock didn't nod or say anything, but his icy blue-grey eyes were wide and it told John that he would try and do as he had said.

"Good boy, I'll see you in here on Monday, okay?"

"Monday." Sherlock confirmed.

"Okay."

Sherlock gave his teacher on last, rather hurried, hug before leaving the room.

The moment he was outside in the corridor he slumped against the wall and slid down it till his legs gave way and he hit the floor. He curled up in a ball and buried his face his face in his hands. He really, really needed to change his pants now. What was wrong with him? Why was this happening to him? Hadn't he suffered enough?

Yep, that lunch time had just confirmed it.

He was falling for John Watson, hard.

**I would be a very happy bunny if you were to press that review button and tell me what you think, very happy indeed **


	5. That's How People Grow Up

Monday

Sherlock was seriously toying with his conscience. On one hand he knew he wanted to see John, but on the other hand he knew he shouldn't want to. John was just so… God he was perfect. Bloody perfect! Sherlock really didn't understand why john was being so friendly to him, nobody was ever friendly to him that was just the way it was, people didn't want to associate themselves with Freak Holmes, they just didn't. Sherlock knew he shouldn't be thinking about his teacher the way he was. Firstly John was his _teacher, _he was a whole ten years older than him, he was probably heterosexual (possibly bisexual) and he was already committed to somebody else. John must be serious about his relationship with this _woman _otherwise he wouldn't have asked her to marry him. Sherlock didn't really see much point in marriage himself, his parents had been married, and his brother was married to darling Anthea, but nobody on baker Estate seemed to be married, and Jim certainly wasn't. Sherlock hadn't really worked relationships into his whole 'Life Plan' yet, he probably never would. No, John Watson's life seemed pretty cemented: marry this Mary girl, stay with her for the rest of his life, a couple of kids, maybe a dog to take on walks or whatever dog owners did. Sherlock couldn't really find where he himself fit into John's life. What was he to John? The lonely year eleven boy? The little anorexic sociopath that lived on Baker Estate that had nothing and no one? His friend? Whatever he was, John meant more to him that he would probably ever mean to John.

He'd doe everything John had told him to. Stay out of trouble and keep his head down, he ever eaten half a packet of crisps on Sunday. It wasn't like he went out looking for trouble, well… he wasn't trying to get into trouble, trouble just found him. Why was he doing this? He was crazy, he was really finally loosing his mind. Jim had always said he would one day, guess that day was now.

He stood outside the biology classroom door, completely stationary like a stone statue. Should he go in? John was expecting him. Going in wasn't exactly a moral decision, but for some reason he felt like he needed to see John again.

Why the fuck was this happening to him? What had he don to deserve this? He wasn't a bad person really. He wasn't a particularly good person, but he wasn't a bad one. He was just an exceptionally unlucky person that a lot of bad things had happened to. It wasn't his fault that he just had a seriously fucked up life, and there wasn't exactly anything he could do about it.

"Don't be a coward Sherlock." he hissed maliciously at himself. He slowly extended his trembling fingers, he hooked them around the door handle and taking a deep breath he pushed.

"Hi Sherlock." John smiling face greeted him.

John's smile was infectious because he absentmindedly found himself smiling back "Hi John, sorry I'm late, I had detention." this was a lie, in truth he had just been sitting in one of the toilet cubicles thinking about what to do.

John immediately noticed that the dark bruises that had been covering Sherlock's face on Friday were looking a lot better, the swelling had gone down and the colour was slightly faded, they'd probably be gone by this time next week "How was your weekend?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged "It was fine."

"Sherlock, you can tell me if there's anything wrong." he reassured him.

Sherlock stared up into his teacher's reassuring face and everything just came spilling out "I had a crap weekend! My brother is just ignoring me as always, and my adopted dad is just being a complete and utter dick"- again, John did nothing about him swearing in school - "And everybody's just really pissing me off, and…" he raked his fingers through his hair like he was going mad, his nails roughly scraping his scalp "…and I…"

John gave him an encouraging look.

Sherlock didn't really want to say it, he felt exposed, almost like he was naked "I…"

"Sherlock," John reached out and took his hand, guiding him to the seat next to him "You can tell me."

Sherlock shook his head "It's stupid." he mumbled, sounding slightly ashamed.

"If it's bothering you Sherlock, it's obviously not stupid." why did he have to be right? WHY!

"It's just…I know it's dumb, but I miss my parents." ha admitted.

"That's completely natural Sherlock, your parents are gone and your going to miss them." John patted his shoulder reassuringly.

Sherlock didn't seem to convinced.

"Hey, you know when I was thirteen my mum died." John told him.

Sherlock's eyes widened. Wow, that was a first, Sherlock not knowing something about someone. Either he was loosing his touch or John was good at hiding things.

"She was in a car accident." John explained. It had been years since he had told anybody about the car crash that had killed his mum, it still hurt to talk about it, only the painful ache had faded through the years s it didn't really hurt that much anymore, nether the less it still hurt. "What happened to yours?"

Sherlock paused, thinking about what to tell him. He may as well just come clean, he was bound to eventually, only thing was that he'd never really told anyone what had happened. Of course Jim, Seb, Irene and Mycroft already knew, but Sherlock had never actually _told _anyone. In fact in all honesty nobody had ever asked him before. "They…they got stabbed."

"Oh." was all John could say. What was he supposed to say? There were no words for this kind of moment. None. Zilch! "I brought you a sandwich." he told Sherlock.

Sherlock immediately brightened up, immensely glad about the subject change "What's in it?"

"Chicken, lettice, mayo."

Sherlock stared, his nose slightly wrinkled, in look of slight disgust on his face.

"Hey its good." he pulled two bags of sandwiches out of his pocket and passed on of them to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled one of the sandwiches out of the bag and sniffed it, holding it between his long fingers like it was some kind of dead specimen, examining it.

John rolled his eyes "It's fine, it's not going to poison you."

"You sure about that?" Sherlock sniggered.

"Yep, pretty sure." John laughed.

Sherlock took a bite, chewing slowly with a slightly amused expression on his youthful face.

"So?"

"You were right." Sherlock mused.

"_I_ was right? Right about what?"

"It is good." he smiled.

"Good." John took a bite out of his own sandwich.

They sat in silence for a minute or two, silently chewing their sandwiches.

"What music do you like?" John blurted. Oh God, it was just like the favourite colour question from Friday.

Sherlock didn't question him this time, he was starting to get used to it by now "The Smiths."

John's eyes widened "Really?"

"Well they're good." Sherlock said, defensively.

"No, I know they are, they're amazing." John agreed, sitting up in his chair.

"You like them too?"

"They're fucking brilliant!" John beamed He didn't even care that he had just broken one of the rules, if any teacher found out that he had sworn in school whilst in conversation with a student they would go utterly ballistic. But right now, John really couldn't give two shits.

"They are." Sherlock agreed. Evidently he didn't care either.

"So, what's your favourite song then?" wow, conversation was getting really easy. It came almost naturally to him, almost like Sherlock was somebody he'd known his whole life, like a brother, or a best friend, or a boyfriend. No. Not like a boyfriend!

Sherlock shrugged "I don't know, I like loads of them." he smirked "Irene hates them, she always gets really pissed off when me and Jim play them really load in the flat."

"I know what you mean, Mary hates them too. I don't understand it, but I suppose I hate most of her music so were even."

"What music does she like?" Sherlock demanded, looking slightly disgusted at the fact that John's fiancée didn't like The Smiths.

"Oh, just crappy manufactured pop music "John scoffed "You know, boy bands, stuff like that."

"But that's all shit!" Sherlock protested.

"Tell me about it."

They both surveyed each other, both curious, almost aching to know ore about the other.

John extended his arms to Sherlock "Come here."

Sherlock looked slightly confused, eyeing John's outstretched arms "huh?"

"Come here." John repeated, beckoning to Sherlock with his hands.

Sherlock edged a little closer to him, John drew him into a tight hug. Wrapping both his arms around him, gently rubbing his bony back comfortingly. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, allowing him to continue.

John couldn't explain, it just felt… right. Him and Sherlock together like this. It felt warm and comforting and it was just… well, like he said, he couldn't explain it.

"Now listen Sherlock," he said, still holding the boy close to his chest "I can't be here tomorrow, I-"

"Why?" Sherlock demanded instantly, soundly immensely disappointed.

"I'm going to a funeral." he explained.

"Who died?" Sherlock asked, still sounding disappointed.

"Friend of Mary's, and I've got to go, you know, to help her through it."

Sherlock gave a deep sigh. He couldn't help but think that John was choosing Mary over him. "Okay. But you'll be here on Wednesday, right?"

"Oh yeah, I'll be back for Wednesday. But Sherlock," he pulled out of the hug, although keeping on of his arms subconsciously continuing rubbing his skinny back "Promise me that you will eat something and that you will stay out of trouble."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Please promise me Sherlock." John felt almost like he was grovelling now.

Sherlock gave a tiny nod.

"Thank you." then he did something he hadn't done before. He leaned forward and gently brushed his lips against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock gave a barely audible gasp. His pupils dilated immediately and his pulse quickened dramatically. Thank God that John was stupid like everybody else, if he was Sherlock he would know all about the thoughts whirring through his head at a thousand miles a hour.

John pulled his head back and resumed hugging. Sherlock took a deep breath, inhaling John's scent. He smelled like after shave and Bunsen Burners and chicken corma sandwiches. And there was a unique smell that was purely John and John alone, it blended well with all the smells surrounding It.

John patted Sherlock briefly on the back, pulling out of the hug. "See you on Wednesday."

Sherlock had to check the time. Bloody hell, ten minutes till next lesson already. Well like they 'Time flied when you're having fun.'

"See you on Wednesday." they stood up, giving each other one more clumsy one-armed hug.

Wednesday 

Sherlock didn't waste time deliberating if he should go in this time, he just waltzed in like he owned the classroom.

"Hi Sherlock."

"Hello John."

"Sandwich?"

"What's in it?"

"Strawberry jam."

"Don't mind if I do." Bam! Conversation had begun. Just like that. Like John said, it was easy to talk to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the sandwich and chewed, a distasteful expression on his face that told John that he didn't like strawberry jam very much.

"How are things at home?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at him "What?"

"Sorry, that was a bit random wasn't it."

Sherlock nodded "Just a bit." he grinned.

"But seriously Sherlock, what's-"

"What's it like living on Baker Estate?" Sherlock finished the question for him.

"Yeah."

"You sound like a bloody therapist." Sherlock thought about the question for a moment "It's okay, I suppose."

John raised his eyebrows "It's okay? Really?"

Sherlock shrugged "Yeah, it's okay really, I mean, it's not the best place in the country to live."

"Sherlock, it's probably the worst place in the country to live." John interrupted "But I want to know what's happening with you."

"Well, I get the flat to myself quite a bit because Jim and Seb and off on business and Irene's working." he explained "So most of the time I just do whatever the fuck I want."

"What do they all do?" John asked curiously.

"What? Jim, Seb and Irene?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, Irene's a stripper…"

"You live with a stripper!" John cried at Sherlock before he could continue.

He smirked and nodded "Yeah I do, and I don't know what Jim and Seb do."

"What do you mean you 'don't know'?"

"They're not allowed to tell me." Sherlock explained "It's probably illegal." he spoke so nonchalantly it was like everybody he knew broke the law on a daily basis, but then again he did live on Baker Estate.

"So you have no idea?"

Sherlock shook his head "None at all." It had always annoyed Sherlock how Jim hid things from him. The trouble was that while the majority of people were stupid, he and Jim were alike in the sense that they were both not stupid, unfortunately for Sherlock this meant that Jim was probably the only person he was unable to read. Anybody else he could read like an open book, but not Jim. It was so annoying it drove him up the wall sometimes, and Seb and Irene weren't much better. At least it meant they couldn't read him either.

"What do you want to do when you grow up?" John asked, turning the conversation away from annoying adopted parents.

Sherlock blushed slightly, his white cheeks brushed with an elegant shade of pale pink.

The sudden burst of colour in Sherlock's cheeks just intrigued John.

"It's stupid." Sherlock mumbled, slightly ashamed of his glowing face.

"I don't care if it is."

Sherlock brushed a couple of loose curls out of his eyes "I want to be a consulting detective."

"Is that a real job?"

"It will be once I am one." he grinned.

"So it's not a real job?"

"Well, no, not yet." he admitted rather sheepishly "But like I said, it will be."

"So what does a consulting detective do exactly?" John asked, curious about this fictional profession Sherlock had created for himself.

"Solve crimes."

"So you like mysteries then?"

He nodded, most of the pink now drained from his face.

"Have you ever played Cludo?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flung his head back in exasperation "That is such a stupid game!"

"No it's not."

"It really is, he so killed himself."

"He did not kill himself." John argued, slightly amused.

"He did. Only explanation that is actually logical. There are no motives, clues, nothing."John raised both his arms in mock surrender "Fine, whatever you say."

They both laughed marvelling at how easy conversation was.

"But anyway, Jim says it will be pretty hard to get anybody to listen to me." Sherlock added.

"That's not very supportive of him." John pointed out "Why does he say that? I mean, I listen to you."

"Yeah but you're different." the corner of Sherlock's lips pricked up in a tiny smile "You're just... you're just you. Not many people will listen to me because I've got Asperger's.

"I didn't know you had Asperger Syndrome."

"Not many people do."

"Why?""Not many people talk to me." John's medical knowledge began to kick in. He could remember studying Asperger Syndrome during his time at medical school, the teacher he had the most boring voice, but John could remember being wrapped onto his every word. He could remember the teacher telling them about behaviours linked to Asperger's. He made a list in his head. May be sensitive to touch or loud noise, may have trouble understanding other people's emotions, may have trouble recognizing facial expressions may often have a loud voice, a very quiet voice, or a voice that does not express emotion, often do not like changes in school, work, and home life routines, may perform/appear average despite high level intelligence, over-think everything, may have trouble making friends, are often bullied in school, often have extremely good memory, low sexual interest.

Suddenly many of Sherlock's antics and social problems seemed to make a whole lot more sense.

"Yeah." Sherlock bowed his head, obviously he knew what John was thinking.

"So, Sherlock, where does that come from?" John asked, again trying to change the subject.

"What? My name?"

"Yeah, only I have never met anybody else called Sherlock before."

"Well it means fair haired, which as you can see doesn't refer to me." he ran his fingers through his dark curls "But I was named after someone in my family."

"Who?"

Sherlock gave him a kind of 'Are you stupid' look "Sherlock Holmes, obviously."

"Right, that would make sense."

They both laughed.

John extended his arm "Give me a hug."

Sherlock looked slightly taken a back, but he obediently approached John.

They fit together so well, it was almost like they were made for each other like two parts of a puzzle.

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, the soft black curls gently tickling his cheek. He didn't know why he did it, it just felt like he should, he couldn't explain it.

"What have you got now?" he asked.

"Maths with Lesrade."

He absentmindedly rubbed Sherlock's shoulder affectionately "Greg's nice Sherlock, please don't annoy him."

"I don't annoy him!" Sherlock protested "Don't you think he should have known about his wife shagging the paediatrician?"

"I suppose, but wouldn't that be like a doctor dating a patient?"

"Well he's a paediatrician so if he's dating a patient yeah there's a problem.

John snorted with laughter "But seriously, be nice to Mr Lestrade, please."

Sherlock nodded in agreement "I will."

"Thanks." he ruffled Sherlock's curls like an affectionate dog owner "See you tomorrow."

Friday

John stretched out in his chair. Thank God it's Friday. No more annoying teenagers for two days. Thank God for weekends. Thank god for lunchtimes with Sherlock Holmes. Although John was happy it was the weekend, he was sad because it meant that after this lunchtime he wouldn't see Sherlock for until Monday. Ha hated not seeing Sherlock, and oddly it was like he _missed _him when he wasn't there. He couldn't quite explain it. There was a lot of things about his and Sherlock's relationship that he couldn't explain. He'd only known him two weeks and already it was like him and the boy were best friends. They had just clicked, there really wasn't any other way to describe it, that was just the way it was, it didn't particularly make sense, by hey.

The door opened and Sherlock came in "Hi John."

"Hi Sherlock." he smiled "Good day?"

He shrugged "It was fine."

"I've got chicken and mayonnaise." he pulled a sandwich out of his pocket and offered it to Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed the sandwich and grinned "I don't need that."

Fuck! "No Sherlock, please don't do this, you do need it." he couldn't do this now, not now, not when he was doing so well.

"No, I don't need it because," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sandwich "I bought my own."

Pride blazed through John like fire. He had done it! He had had a break through! He couldn't help it, he stood up and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug "Well done."

Sherlock chuckled "You're welcome."

"No seriously Sherlock," he clapped him on the back "Well done."

"Thanks." he grinned.

They sat down and ate their sandwiches, both feeling very good about themselves.

"So, I was thinking we could play a game."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows "A game? John, I know I'm your student but I'm not a child."

"No, I know, it's called 20Q, I ask you twenty questions about you and you answer them truthfully, kind of like truth or dare with out the dare." he explained.

"Okay, you go first. Question one?"

"When's your birthday?"

"That's the type of questions your going to ask?" Sherlock asked incredulously "That's pathetic."

"Well that's just the first one. You going to answer?"

"6th January." he answered "Question two?"

"Why don't you like your brother?"

"Because he's a prick."

"That's not a good enough answer." John argued.

Sherlock rolled his eyes "Fine. I don't like him because ever since my parents died he's just been ignoring me, he doesn't want anything to do with me anymore, he hasn't spoken to me in years, he didn't even invite me to his wedding." God it felt good to just bitch about Mycroft "And sometimes I just feel like I lost him when my parents died, like the all died."

"That's though." John patted his shoulder comfortingly. A similar thing had happened to him when his mum had died, his sister had started going out and drinking, he had just put it down to he not being able to cope as well as he did.

"Question three?" Sherlock asked, not wanting to dwell on the subject.

"Have you ever broken the law?"

"Oh just jump in at the deep end why don't you." Sherlock laughed "Yes, I have, but I'm not going to say anymore."

"That's fine, that's your business."

"Next question?"

"What's your favourite song that's not a Smiths song?"

"Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds by the Beetles."

"Do you think it's about drugs?" John asked curiously.

"I'm counting that as a question." Sherlock grinned "And it is so obviously about drugs."

"It's actually based on a picture John Lennon's son drew." John explained.

"Based on a picture his son drew my arse!" Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, I don't think it's about LSD." John said flatly.

"Clearly you've never done LSD then." Sherlock grinned.

"And you have?"

"Once, just to try it, Jim got really pissed off with me. And I'm counting that as a question too."

"Fine."

"Question seven?"

"Why does Anderson not like you?"

He sighed "Why doesn't anybody like me? I'm Freak Holmes and nobody likes Freak Holmes."

"Why?" John asked.

"That's another question." Sherlock pointed out "And, I don't really know, I just don't fit in with their fucking elite image."

"I think elite image is a load of shit." John said honestly.

"So do I. Question eight?"

"Who was your first kiss?"

John could remember his first kiss very well. He had been ten years old and it had been with a mildly popular girl named Sarah in his class, it had been okay, a little too wet perhaps and he hadn't known where to put his hands or how to move his head, but as far as first kisses go John though he had done quite well considering.

"Jim." Sherlock said without thinking.

"What!" John asked, thunderstruck.

Sherlock realised his mistake, his icy eyes widened and the pale pink returned to his cheeks "Next question John!"

"Sherlock!"

"NEXT QUESTION JOHN!"

"Fine, here's the next question: what the fuck?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyes still wide, his usually bloodless cheeks flushed.

John lowered his voice "Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock was fighting a mental battle. How the fuck was he just able to blurt his darkest secrets to his biology teacher. No, not his biology teacher. His friend. This last week had taught him that John was truly his only friend. And for some reason he was John's fiend too. But he couldn't risk telling John anymore of his secrets. But he could tell him this one, couldn't he?

"I was fourteen and I'd never kissed anyone." he began to explain "Jim knew, and we were talking about it, and he said 'Do you want me to show you' and I said yes and he kissed me."

John felt bile rise in his throat "Jim's your _dad!_" he hissed.

"Adopted dad." Sherlock corrected him.

"Did you… I mean… did you kiss him back?"

"That's a question." Sherlock pointed out.

"You can add it to the total."

Sherlock hesitated before slowly nodding.

John felt sick "Did he… did he show you anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head and John relaxed slightly.

"How old is Jim?"

"He's thirty-five, but he was thirty-four at the time."

"So, your gay?"

Sherlock shook his head again "I'm bisexual." he paused for a moment "So I suppose I am kind of gay."

"How many questions have I got left?"

Sherlock actually found himself smiling "That's a question."

"You can include that one."

"Five."

John thought. What could he do with his remaining five questions? The first kiss question seemed to have just wiped all others from his mind. "Sherlock, do you want to come round my house to have dinner tonight with me ad Mary?"

Sherlock stared, not quite sure to fully believe what he had just heard John say.

"Sherlock?"

"Err…yeah, okay?"

John smiled "Good." he put his arm around Sherlock and rocked him slightly from side to side. He knew Sherlock was bisexual and had kissed a man older than him and he still wanted to hug him and hold him. God, he must really like this boy.

**Bloody hell, that only took me forever **

**I know it's not the best thing I've ever written, sorry if you got bored, but there was some important stuff hidden in the waffle **

**Please review **


	6. I Started Something I Couldn't Finish

**First I want to say something regarding another author. Marlboro Blanc, you are truly an amazing author and I will miss you and your stories very much, hopefully this is not the end but if it is I wish you all the best luck for the future**

**am just a crap speller, and any way buy the time I have written the story up, proof read and chopped and changed I honestly can't be fucked to check my spellings. Sorry if it annoys you, but that's just me.**

Chapter Five

The place John lived wasn't particularly special. It was just an ordinary, modern-ish style, red brick house with a white door, just like the dozens of other houses surrounding it that were all exactly the same. John and Mary had been living together In this house for about six months now, it hadn't been their first house together, they had lived in several other places together before but Mary was convinced that this house was going to be a more permanent home. It was an _okay _house, it was a bit dull and boring but it was spacious enough for probably a maximum of four people, so it was good enough for two.

Hep outside the house in his old rusty car.

"This is where you live?" Sherlock asked, sitting up in his seat so he could see the house better.

"yep." they both got out the car. John walked to the door (which only took a couple of strides from where his parking space was) and unlocked it. Sherlock remained standing by the old car, doing something he liked to call 'Deducing' and John preferred to call 'Scanning'.

"Oh do feel free to tell me about the last people to live here judging by the bricks." he interrupted Sherlock's process of deduction.

"Married couple," Sherlock began. Oh God he was actually doing it. "had two kids while living here, they're probably in primary school now." he tilted his head to the right slightly "Both boys." he paused "No, one boy one girl who was a tomboy."

John gazed in awe "That was sarcasm Sherlock." he added. The scary thing was that he was right, John and Mary had met the previous owners while deciding weather to but to house or not.

"Oh…right."

They stood still for a moment.

"You coming in or what?" John asked, holding the door open for Sherlock.

Sherlock entered the house without saying a word. Gazing around in the small hallway that had two doors leading off, one on each side, and a flight of stairs that lead up to a second landing. He craned his neck so he could look at the top floor.

"You can go upstairs if you want." John added, kicking off his shoes.

"Can I?" Sherlock asked, coping John's actions and kicking off his own shoes.

"Sure go on, tell me my whole life story from the what you can find in my bedroom." he laughed.

At the top of the stairs there was a door on the right and a small hallway on the left with two doors leading off it. Sherlock could tell by how worn the turquoise carpet was that the room on the right was where John and Mary slept, he pushed the door and tiptoed in. The slightly alarming shade of blue hit him almost at once, it was a very bright shade of aqua blue, and it wasn't just the walls, everything that could be blue was blue. 'Mary likes blue then' Sherlock noted, that didn't exactly take a genius like him to work out. There were several photographs (all in blue frames) on the walls, all of Mary and John together. She was okay looking he supposed, not particularly good looking, she slightly resembled a non-stripper Irene, but with straighter mouser hair and a pointier nose and Sherlock could tell from the positioning of her teeth that she had worn braces in her youth.

Her and John just didn't seem to fit; John was... well he was John, and she was just... well, boring. She looked so plain it was unbelievable, everything about her just seemed predictable, like she was some sort of cliché or something.

Everything in the house was to tidy, and this room was no exception, everything seemed to be exactly where it was supposed to be, nothing was out of place, it made Sherlock feel slightly over exposed and uncomfortable. He smile slightly, imagining this smiling girl in the pictures in his flat, she would hate them for how much mess they made.

"What do you think?" John came up behind him.

"It's…" he struggled to find something positive to say, sure it was nice, but it was predictable and boring "it's very clean." at least he wasn't lying.

"You hate it don't you?"

"I don't _hate _it." - that was a lie - "it's just…" he gestured around.

"It's fine, I know what you mean," he sat down on the end of the bed and gestured to Sherlock to do the same "I don't particularly like it either."

Sherlock sat down next to him "You confuse me." he finally admitted.

"_I _confuse _you_?"

"Don't make me say it again."

"Why?" John asked, curious "I'm just me."

"Yes, and that's just it."

They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock shuffled a little closer and rested his curly head on John's shoulder.

John put his arm around the boy and hugged him briefly "Why didn't you defend yourself?" it was a question he had been burning to ask for over a week now, ever since last Wednesday dropping Sherlock back at Baker Estate.

"What?"

"When Anderson and his friends attacked you, why didn't you defend yourself?"

"Have you seen how big they are?" Sherlock asked, incredulously "They could all be wrestlers!"

"If it was just Anderson would you have fought back?"

"Of course I would, Anderson is nothing without his pathetic bodyguard that's around him 24/7, if it was just him I'd beat him hands down."

John raised his eyebrows.

"I would."

"Of course you would."

"I would!"

"Whatever you say."

Was John doubting him? Was brilliant funny Mr John Watson actually _doubting _him? What did Jim do when Seb or Irene doubted him? Answer: he took advantage. Should he, Sherlock, take advantage of this moment.? Yes, yes he should.

He leapt at John, slamming him down into the aqua blue duvet, grabbing John's wrists he leant over John's body on his knees, panting slightly, holding John's wrists up by his head to prevent him escaping.

"Ha!" he grinned "Told you."

Their faces were so close that a couple of Sherlock's curls gently tickled John's face. John was mentally kicking himself for it, but he had to admit that this actually felt quite nice. It seemed to give Sherlock an overwhelming awe of superiority, making John feel inferior, he quite liked it, but he was sure he would like it just as much if their positions were switched.

Thank God he had a tomboy lesbian sister who had taught him how to fight.

He jerked his whole body, unbalancing Sherlock, taking instant advantage of the boy's venerable situation and flipped him over, grabbing his wrists and forcing his head into the duvet, switching their positions.

Sherlock squirmed and struggled against John. And suddenly he was seven years old again, frightened and helpless, struggling to break free from somebody who was much bigger and stronger than he was. But then he remembered that he wasn't seven, he was fifteen, and it was John that was holding him down, nobody else, just John, his best friend John, not somebody that wanted to hurt him, just somebody who was having fun with him. He stopped struggling.

John grinned "Whatever you say." he mimicked his own voice from earlier.

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at John, grinning back.

John had never really noticed before, but Sherlock was a very attractive boy. In fact in a way, he was kind of beautiful. Sprawled out beneath him, his dark hap around his face, framing his elegant features. His icy eyes shone out from his thin white face, his blue creeping veins standing out around his temples, his cheekbones, his ever-so-slightly flushed cheeks, his thin lips. John wondered if Sherlock's lips were as soft as they looked. He lifted one of his arms and ran his fingers along Sherlock's face, curiously. His white skin was very smooth and surprisingly silky to touch. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he let John slowly run his fingers along his face, studying it. John's thumb gently traced along Sherlock's lips and he opened his mouth slightly, allowing John more depth of exploration. Sherlock's lips were softer than they looked.

"Sometimes, I wish I hated you." Sherlock whispered honestly.

"Why?" John asked, his voice just a fraction louder than Sherlock's.

"You confuse me." Sherlock repeated.

John was going to answer, but he didn't really know what to say. What was there to say?

He heard the front door open and close "John!"

He suddenly realised how weird this would look if Mary walked in, he rolled off of Sherlock and sat up next to him. Sherlock remained completely stationary, his skinny body lying completely still on top of the blue bed covers.

The bedroom door opened and Mary walked in "Hi John, I-" she stopped in her tracks.

"Hi Mary." John smiled and stood up "This is Sherlock." he gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Sherlock tensed slightly, tearing his icy gaze away from John and Mary together.

"Hello Sherlock." Mary smiled kindly.

Sherlock didn't move, still averting his gaze "Hello." he replied stiffly.

Mary turned to John "Okay, I've got pasta, it should be ready In ten minutes, is that okay?"

"Sure."

"Okay." she kissed his cheek - making Sherlock tense again - and turned to leave.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and listened to Mary's footsteps on the stairs.

John snorted with laughter and fell back onto the bed beside Sherlock.

His laughter was oddly contagious because Sherlock found himself laughing along.

"So what do you think of Mary?"

Oh God, why that question? Anything but that question "She's seems fine."

"Yeah she's lovely ." he laid down next to Sherlock, their heads touching.

_Lovely? _What was lovely about her? She was boring. "Do you love her?" he swallowed.

"Well obviously otherwise I wouldn't be marrying her." John grinned.

"Yeah…" Sherlock reached down and twined his long fingers with John's, John didn't object, on the contrary he squeezed Sherlock's hand in a warm comforting sort of way.

Sherlock yanked on John's arm, pulling him round so he rolled on top of him.

They both burst into fits of giggles like they were over exited children.

John didn't know why he did it, or what insane force possessed him to do it, but he bowed his head an planted a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock froze, but thoughts wired through his brain at a thousand miles an hour. He wanted to move but he didn't, he stayed completely still. He suddenly realised he was out of breath and he took a long gasp of air.

John froze. Oh God, what had he done? He jerked his head away and sprang off the bed, panic stricken. Oh Fuck!

Sherlock sat up "John?" he wasn't smiling, in fact his youthful face seemed completely blank off all emotions.

John didn't know what he was supposed to do, what could he do? Was he giving Sherlock the wrong impression? Fuck that, was he giving him the right impression? He cared deeply about this boy, until now he hadn't known how much.

"John?" Sherlock repeated, his face still blank.

"John!" Mary called from down stairs.

An escape!

John turned to the door and backed out into the hallway.

What had he done? What the fuck had he done?

Sherlock's lips were even softer to kiss. _SHUT UP JOHN! _

If Mary found out she would never trust him again. If the school found out he'd loose his job. If child protection services found out Sherlock would go into care and John could even be arrested.

But John wasn't a paedophile. Was he? Sherlock was a minor after all, he was only fifteen. Bloody fucking fifteen years old. That was much to young for John, what with his age and experience, to ever consider a relationship with. John had never had romantic feelings of anybody as young as Sherlock, come to think of it he'd never really had overly romantic feelings towards men, well not since he had been a teenager anyway. When he had been a year or two older that Sherlock he had considered himself bi-curious and he'd had several relationships with men, all of which had been purely physical poorly constructed relationships none of which had lasted longer than a couple of months each.

He raked his fingers through his sandy hair, not sure what was happening.

"John?" Mary called again.

"Coming!" His voice didn't sound like his own, it sounded almost like somebody else was using it, it wasn't right.

He staggered slightly, stumbling down the stairs as he entered the lime green kitchen.

Mary had he back to him, spoon in her hand, stirring the pasta sauce.

He crossed the kitchen and placed his hand on her shoulder, she let out a faint gasp of surprise and twisted her head round, he kissed the tip of her nose "What do you need?"

Oh God, his voice still sounded strange.

She smiled and gave him a quick kiss "Can you lay the table please? Pasta'll be ready in like two minutes. You can call your friend down. What's his name? Sterling?"

"Sherlock." John corrected her.

"Sherlock, right, I'll remember that." she smiled "So who is he?"

"He's one of my year eleven students, he's kind of… lonely, and he doesn't really have any friends, so I figured I should look after him." he explained.

"Can't his parents do that?" she asked, spooning pasta into bowls "I don't see why you should have to do it."

"Well his parents are dead and the people he lives with aren't the most parent-like." he paused "and anyway, I want to help him."

"So, what made you want to help him?" she placed the pasta on the side and turned so she was directly facing him, arms crossed across her chest.

John stared at the floor, not wanting to meet her eyes "Because he needs me."

"And, do you need him?"

John froze. He hadn't thought about that before. Did he need Sherlock? Maybe. If he was being completely honest with himself, which he always tried to be, yes he probably did. Yes.

Yes.

He shrugged "I don't know." he lied.

She smiled "So, he's why you've been making all those extra sandwiches then?"

"Yeah."

"He seems a bit…" she paused, considering her vast vocabulary to find the suitable word to suit John's new friend "…distant."

"Well he is, I guess I'm just lucky."

"What, have you and him got some kind of weird physic connection or something like that?" she grinned.

You have no idea.

"You can call him down and then we'll eat, 'kay?

"Okay." John gulped slightly, suddenly his throat seemed to have become all thick and his hands felt oddly clammy.

He backed out into the hall "Sherlock!" he called, once again his voice sounded croaky and shaky and definitely not like his own.

He was back in the kitchen before Sherlock came down the stairs, not wanting to be alone with the boy in case he was tempted to kiss him again.

Sherlock poked his head round the kitchen door.

"Hello Sherlock." Mary gave him a rather unnecessarily large smile.

Sherlock bit down on his tongue so as not to say anything he might regret, he really didn't want to do that. He nodded curtly at her in an effort to be polite, which was something reasonably new to him.

John glanced at him and for a moment their eyes met. Sherlock's icy eyes bore into John, giving him the feeling he was being x-rayed.

"Right." Mary clapped her hands together rather snappily, making them both jump slightly "Pasta."

John and Sherlock both took their seats next to each other. John tried to avoid eye contact with the boy which was easier said than done as he could feel Sherlock's icy gaze slice through him like a blade through warm butter.

Mary placed the bowls of pasta on the table and sat down in her usual place opposite John.

Sherlock was seriously panicking. Was John angry with him? Had he, Sherlock, upset John in some way? He hadn't meant to. What should he do? What did he usually do when he was worried something was wrong?

He experimented.

He casually shifted a fraction of an inch closer to John, he heard his teacher's breathing become slightly more shallow. He gave John twenty-seven seconds before of eating pasta, he himself completely ignoring the full bowl in front of hi, before carrying out the next phase of the experiment. He brushed gently brushed his knee against John's. The tiniest gasp of breath escaped the teacher's lips, greatly satisfying Sherlock.

Sherlock's spider-like hands crept slowly underneath the table until it made contact with John's knee.

John could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as Sherlock's long fingers seemed to make every nerve on his leg spark like live wires.

Sherlock crept his hand slowly up John's thigh, making every muscle in his body clench as his pulse dramatically accelerated. Sherlock's wandering hand edged up John's leg, he gently rubbed the tips of his fingers along John's inner thigh dangerously close to his crotch.

Oh Fuck, blood rushing south. This was exactly what he needed wasn't it. To be turned on by his year eleven student right in front of his fiancée. All of a sudden his boxers felt a lot tighter than they have five minutes ago. He felt beads of sweat glisten on his forehead and he ran his fingers through his hair, gulping desperately for air like a fish out of water.

They both glanced at Mary, who seemed completely oblivious as to what was going on, happily chewing on her pasta, chatting about her day not paying the slightest bit of attention to either of them.

Sherlock smirked privately to himself. He lifted his hand off John's leg, he'd tortured him enough, and anyway he'd got the information he'd been seeking.

Successful Experiment. Conclusion: John Watson liked him too.

He heard John's almost sign of relief as his hand parted company with his leg.

…

The car ride back to Sherlock's flat with intensely awkward. The both just sat in silence, avoiding eye contact. Mary hadn't exactly been the most gracious of hosts, she was annoyed with Sherlock for only consuming two spoonfuls of pasta, she had been hiding her annoyance but Sherlock could tell, he could always tell. Jim sometimes called it his sixth sense, Sherlock just said he was smarted than ordinary people because he actually _saw _them.

John pulled up in the Baker Estate car park "Look, Sherlock."

Sherlock started, it was the first time Sherlock had directly spoken to him since the… incident "Yes John?" he asked, trying to look and sound as innocent as possible.

John bit his lip "I hope I haven't jeopardised anything between us."

"You haven't."

"I have and I'm sorry." John took a deep breath "I shouldn't have… k-kissed you." he managed to stammer the word.

Sherlock bowed his head slightly "It's fine."

"No it's not, I'm your teacher and you're my student and I should have know better, I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry John." Sherlock reached out and took John's hand in his own "I wanted you to kiss me."

He steadied his breathing and leaned forward so his and John's faces were mere millimetres apart. John didn't do anything to push him away, that was a good thing right? Only Sherlock had never actually kissed anybody before, other people had kissed him but it wasn't the same. He closed the space between them, softly pressing his mouth to John's.

To John it felt a little bit like waking up from a dream, a hazy misty dream that confuses and puzzles you, filling your mind with smoke. But once you're awake everything is clear again, and it's so vivid and colourful and real that it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time. He felt the palms of Sherlock's hands on his cheeks and felt his stomach doing somersaults. He wants to hold Sherlock and kiss him back, but his body feels like it's drained of all energy.

It barely lasted five seconds, but it felt years before Sherlock pulled away. John kept his eyes tight shut. He heard the car door open and close and the sound of departing footsteps.

He smacked his forehead with the clammy palm of his sweaty hand.

What the fuck had he done?

**God that took ages. **

**Review, go on, I DARE YOU! **


	7. I Just Want To See The Boy Happy

Chapter 6

"He lives with his godfather because his parents died when he was eight," John explained, taking a bite out of his cheese on toast "on Baker Estate." another bite, chew and swallow "And he's really smart even though he doesn't really care, I reckon if he tried he could get really high marks in his GCSEs and go on the university." he'd been talking to Mary about Sherlock for about half an hour now, she's been polite and sweet enough to listen at first, but now John could tell she was starting to get tired of 'Sherlock this and Sherlock that'. But there was just so much to tell. Sherlock was a very complex individual with many layers. In lots of ways he was almost like a maze, confusing and strange and even a little frightening, but once you knew what to do you found everything rather thrilling and exiting and you found yourself wanting more, wandering what was around the next corner, what they could possibly throw at you next. "I worry about him some-"

"John!" Mary interrupted him.

"Huh? Oh… what?" her voice seemed to suck him out of the Sherlock corner of his brain, back into reality.

Mary bit her lip, scanning the floor, looking a little nervous "It's just you've been talking an awful lot about that boy ever since yesterday."

"I have?" what was he talking about, of course he had, he'd been talking about him non-stop for the last half an hour.

"Yeah," she brushed her mousey hair out of her face with her hand "I mean, you're acting like you're obsessed with him or something." she admitted.

"I'm not obsessed with him!" John protested angrily "I'm not!"

Mary's cheeks went slightly flushed and she raised her voice "Well you're acting like you are!"

"He's just a kid that needs my help! And nobody else in this fucking country is going to help him." John argued, raising his own voice now.

"John! Just shut up and piss off!" she snapped.

"Fine." he flung himself out of his chair.

"Where the fuck are you going?" she leapt out of her own chair, following him into the hallway.

"I just can't deal with this right now okay!" he forced his arms through his jacket sleeves "I'm going out for a couple of pints.

"Fine." she glared at him, it really didn't suit her usually gentle features "Just don't get drunk."

"I won't." he had a feeling she was going to say something, but whatever it was if she had said it he hadn't heard it because he had already slammed the door behind him.

John wasn't really going out for a drink, he didn't really like drinking and did try to avoid it. Two reasons: one, learning to be a doctor he'd studied all the things alcohol can leave a negative impact on in the human body, two, holding your drunk sister while she vomited violently all through your teenage years wasn't really going to make you think drinking was a good idea. Harry had just reacted badly to the death of her and John's mother, John guessed it had just been to much of a shock that somebody so close to them who was so loving and kind and irreplaceable should just be gone like that. Harry just wasn't as strong as he was. He had missed his mother too, a lot, he had just kept it together where as Harry had just completely fallen apart.

He climbed into the car and just drove to the first place that came into his mind. Baker Estate, to Sherlock.

Baker Estate wasn't even that far away from where John lived and in a matter of minutes he was already pulling up in the practically empty car park.

At first glance you could tell that Baker Estate wasn't exactly the nicest place to live, there were youths and young men milling about in packs, murmuring to each other in hushed voices as John passed them. John had never really been one to judge, but these people were obviously on drugs or drug dealers.

Sherlock had tole John that he lived in 221b, so John navigated his way to block B the climbed up the iron railed stairs to get to the second floor. Along the stone pathway, obscured from the out looking world by the balcony of bricks were two little girls who were probably about six or seven years old that were played with two rather battered looking Barbie dolls, one of the dolls was blonde with a pink puffy ballerina tutu, the other was rather scandaly-clad in a denim outfit with pixie cut brunette hair and felt tip pen tattoos. He reached the door of 221 and shivered slightly. This was where the brilliant Sherlock Holmes lived? It was manky and dim and stank strongly of piss, somebody close by evidentially owner a dog. The door to Sherlock's flat looked very battered and beaten, it had probably once been white but was now grey with wear and age and just lack of maintenance. John raised his fist and wrapped loudly on the door, it was opened almost instantly.

It wasn't Sherlock that answered to door, it was a woman, probably only a couple of years older than John himself. She was a very pretty woman, curvy like some sort of model with distinctive sharp angular features, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulder and down her back like a rippling curtain. She was wearing next to nothing underneath her green zip hoodie, John could see she seemed to be wearing a rather lacy skimpy undergarment and fishnet tights and that seemed to be about it. This just had to be Irene, Jim's stripper girlfriend.

"Hello?" she had a very seductive voice, soft as velvet and yet piercing like a knife, she probably wasn't even trying to sound suggestive she just seemed to naturally have a very sexy voice "Who are you?"

"I'm John… I'm Sherlock's friend. Sorry, are you Irene?"

"Shirley!" she called over her shoulder "You're little friends come round to play!"

John distinctively heard an all to familiar voice yell "Fuck off Irene!" before Sherlock poked his head round the side of the door "Hi John." he grinned at his teacher.

"Hi Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock shrugged "Yah I'm fine, you coming in?" Sherlock disappeared back into the flat and Irene moved out of the way so John could follow.

The first thing John noticed when entering the flat was how small it was. It was bloody tiny, it made his and Mary's house almost look like a palace. The room was painted a rather ugly light muddy-grey colour, somebody had tried to brighten it up by pinning up classic movie posters from films that ranged for Cabaret to the 1958 Dracula, it had _sort of _worked, but it didn't help the room to seem any bigger. There was a mini-fridge as well as a kettle, coffee machine and microwave on a counter below a cupboard which was evidentially supposed to suffice as a kitchen in one corner next to a set of plastic folding tables and chairs, on the other side of the room was a worn red fabric sofa, stereo and small television along with a pile of DVDs and CDs. There was one rather dirty window and three doors and that was all. The whole flat also bore the rather distinctive stench of damp.

Sherlock came up behind him "I know it's a shit hole, but hey." he smiled.

John turned and started slightly at the sight of the boy. In home cloths it could be easy to forget that he was only fifteen. He was wearing black jeans that were slightly to big for him and had to he held up by a buckle belt and a blue and green vertically striped shirt that was also to big for him and hung limply on his skinny frame, he wasn't wearing any shoes, just a pair of odd socks. He looked kind of nice.

An older man in similar dress with slightly damp black hair came in through one of the doors "Shirley, pass me a beer."

Sherlock threw him one.

He caught it and only then seemed to notice John "Shirley, who the fuck is this?" he jabbed his rolled up newspaper in John's direction.

"Ignore him." Sherlock hissed at John "Jim, this is my friend John, John this is my dad Jim."

"Friend?" Jim scoffed, throwing himself down on the sofa "Since when do you have friends?"

John felt his blood boil, and he clenched his fists into tight balls.

"Oh fuck off Jim." Sherlock grasped John's arm and pulled him towards one of the other doors.

"Oi!" Jim called after him "Thought I raised you better than that you little cunt!"

Sherlock flung out his arm, missing John's ear by a couple of inches and holding up his middle finger at his godfather.

Jim threw his head back and barked with laughter "Just don't get come on your sheets!"

"Jimmy, stop being an arse to Shirley." Irene giggled, playfully slapping him round the head and leaning down to give him a kiss.

Sherlock rolled his eyes "Get a room!" he pulled John through to door into his absolutely tiny bedroom.

It was so small it looked like it had probably once been a cupboard, and the walls had been painted navy blue which just seemed to make it feel even smaller. There was a small window on one wall which allowed Sherlock a reasonably good view of the car park where John had parked his car, he much had seen John coming. They seemed to have just about managed to squeeze Sherlock's single bed into the room, there was barely room for both of them to stand but there were shelves lining the walls filled with Sherlock's worldly positions, as well as a rather visible cardboard box filled with every item of clothing Sherlock seemed to own as well as his school bag. John couldn't help but notice a skull perched rather precariously on a stack of murder mystery novels next to a rather battered looking violin.

"Skull?" he asked/

"Friend of mine… well… I say friend…" he grinned.

John didn't ask.

Sherlock jumped onto his bed, John could hear the springs straining, as he sat up cross legged facing John "So, you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and gazed at John expectantly "No you're not."

"Fine," John sat down on the bed opposite Sherlock "Me and Mary had an argument."

"Oh, what about?"

"Nothing." he mumbled.

Sherlock's eyebrows crept even higher up his forehead "Come on John, I'm not stupid, what was it about?"

"You." it was barley a whisper, but Sherlock heard.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry Sherlock," John reached out and rubbed Sherlock's arm comfortingly "It's not your fault."

Sherlock smiled "John…" now he was whispered.

John knew instantly that Sherlock was going to talk about what had happened in the car yesterday. In truth, he too had been thinking a lot about it, in fact he'd barely been thinking about anything else. He knew it was wrong, knew he was a sick sick man for thinking about it, knew is was illegal, that he'd loose his job, knew that he just shouldn't. But it wasn't like he could help it. In truth he didn't even know what he was trying to help. He liked Sherlock, he did , he really did. He liked the way he spoke and the way he smiled, he liked his personality and the small things not many people would notice. He just liked Sherlock for being Sherlock. Only thing was he didn't really know how far 'like' stretched.

Before he even had time to register what he was doing, he lowered his head slightly and closed his eyes his lips hitting Sherlock's. For a moment or two it was very similar to their previous kisses, simple and fairly non-lustful, but that changed. Sherlock moved first, twisting his head to an angle and bringing his spider-like hands up clumsily grasping John's shoulders. John felt the surface of his skin tingle, like his nerves were live wires, If felt good, nice even. He opened his mouth and gently flicked his tongue against Sherlock's bottom lip, receiving a tiny moan that escaped from Sherlock's mouth. The moan seemed to send electrical impulse messages to his spine, his hands sprung out tangling his fingers into Sherlock's wonderful thick curls, mashing their mouths together. Sherlock immediately became aware of his back slamming into the mattress, his head into his pillow. Their lips part for a moment. Sherlock can see something in John's eyes that he hasn't seen before. Blazing bright and burning. Lust. But John's mouth is back on his, his tongue darting into his mouth. He feels the lust himself too, the aching hunger to get closer and closer, to beg without words for more. John's scent is completely surrounding him, it soaks into every cell of his being, filling his mouth, his lungs, his brain. He felt his boxers grow oddly tight. John bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip, gently sucking making him moan again.

Mary. Her face flashed into John's head. It took every fibre in his body to get him to wrench his head away, breaking the kiss "Stop it!" he cried breathlessly, clambering off his student.

Sherlock's eyes were wide, his bottom lip ever so slightly swollen, he sat up quickly "John…" he reached out.

John flinched away from him, like Sherlock was coming towards him with a sharp object "Don't!"

Sherlock looked as though John had just slapped him round the face.

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock "Just. Don't. Sherlock." he hissed. He got up off the bed and walked out the door.

Sherlock stared after him, hearing the front door close a moment later and knowing that his John was gone. Absentmindedly he ran his fingers over his lips. John had kissed those lips. He sniffed and felt something hot and wet prickle in his eye and softly run down his cheek. He was crying. He had forgotten what it felt like to cry. He could remember that last time he'd cried, it had been at his parents funeral when he had been eight years old and he'd cried so hard his eyes ached for days just because he wished he could be hugged and kissed by his parents one last time, Mycroft had told him to be brave and try not to cry because mummy and daddy wouldn't have wanted him to be sad, he had promised himself there and then that he would never cry again, a promise he had kept, until now that it. He wiped the single hot prickly tear from his cheek and sniffed.

Looks like he'd found something worth crying for. John. His John.

**AN: I might not be updating for a couple of weeks now, only I've got a couple of exams at school and I really need to focus on revising for them, but hopefully I've have the next chapter up within a month. I am trying hard to bare with me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please review because reviews make me so happy, you are all wonderful so thanks again ****J Love Micky xx**


	8. That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

**WARNING: this chapter contains extreme angst! You have been warned!**

Chapter 7

John checked his watch again for what felt like the thousandth time.

12:42.

Lessons ended for lunch at 12:30. Where was Sherlock? Did he not want to spend lunchtimes with John anymore? The very thought made a horrible icy shiver run up John's back. Sherlock _had _to come, he just had to. John needed him there, he needed to know how he was and how he was coping, if he was okay. It was important. Which was kind of bad, seeing as what he needed to talk to his student about this lunchtime.

He checked his watch again. 12:43.

If he wasn't here in two minutes John would go and look for him. That wasn't _too_ pervy, was it?

He sat in his chair, nervously drumming his fingers on the desk. What if Sherlock didn't come at all? But John needed him there, he really badly needed to talk to him. He ran his fingers through his hair, scraping the nails on his scalp.

12:44.

That was it. He stood up and hurried out of the classroom in search of his student.

He scanned a couple of hallways, peering into boy's bathrooms and surveyed the playground before he found him. But he wasn't alone. Ice shot through john's veins when he saw who Sherlock was with. It was Anderson and his usual pack of massive wrestler-like boys.

He could see them from about 100 yards away. Sherlock had his back to John, facing the mob with Anderson at the head. They seemed to be jeering at him. Sherlock must have retaliated because a second later he was on the floor clutching his knee.

No! No, he would not stand and watch them torment Sherlock like he was some sort of toy.

"Hey!" he shouted.

Anderson and the other boys instantly scattered, leaving Sherlock on the floor.

"Hey," he ran up to him and knelt down beside him "you okay?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, he didn't even look at john, just stared resolutely in the opposite direction.

John sighed and wrapped his arm around the boy, pulling him to his feet "You're late." he told Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't say anything, still defiantly avoiding John's eyes.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment then?" he asked.

No answer, which evidentially meant yes.

"Come on." John sighed. Despite avoiding his gaze, Sherlock allowed John to help him hobble on his damaged shin all the way back to Mr Watson's biology classroom.

John helped life him into a chair "Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry I-"

"Are you?" this time Sherlock did look at him, but not his usual lively dancing eyes looked dead and blank. John could just about make out a faint yellow bruise mark just below his left eye.

"Of course I am."

"For what?" even the voice John loved more than anything to listen to sounded dead, cracked and horse. Almost like it hadn't been put to much use for a day or two, it was the kind of croaky voice that people usually have when they are recovering form having a sore throat or cold, or even after having their tonsils taken out at John himself had had done when he had been a year or two younger than Sherlock.

"Lots of things." John admitted "For being a complete dick mostly."

Sherlock couldn't help but give a tiny smile. It wasn't a fake smile, John knew the difference between one of Sherlock's fake smiles and one of Sherlock's real smiles, and that was a real smile. A small smile, but still a smile.

"And I'm just sorry about… well, everything."

Sherlock looked defiantly at the floor, his teeth tightly clamped onto his bottom lip.

"Look, Sherlock," John reached out and took the boy's hand "I like you." he finally admitted "God help me I like you a lot, more than I should." his thumb traced Sherlock's skinny fingers.

"Why is that such a bad thing?" Sherlock blurted sounding upset and angry "What's wrong with it?"

"It's illegal Sherlock, not to mention immoral and just completely wrong."

Sherlock gripped John's hand in a tight grasp "I don't care!" he hissed defiantly.

John brushed one of Sherlock more longer curls off his forehead "You should."

"Look John. I kissed you and I liked it. You're my best friend and you mean so much to me, more than anybody else ever has before. And I don't care that you're ten years older than me, okay! I don't give a fuck that you're my teacher. I kissed you, and I would do it again!"_ I love you._ Sherlock added the last three words in his head.

John took a deep breath "So would I." he breathed "But Sherlock, no. I'm sorry, but no. I can't allow this to happen."

He could see Sherlock's crystal-grey eyes tearing up and if he could he would have hit himself for doing this to Sherlock.

"It's just better if we don't… see or talk to each other anymore."

"Better for who?" Sherlock demanded, his voice sounding like it was about to break in anguish.

"I hate to do this." he said honestly "But it's for the best."

Sherlock shook his head "it's not." he reached up, taking John's face in both his hands and kissing him. He kissed him like he was a drowning man and John was his only remaining source of oxygen, kissed him like he was dying and John was keeping him alive, kissed him like he died tonight, like there was no tomorrow.

John didn't push him away, didn't do anything to stop him, because he knew that he never really wanted this moment with Sherlock to end. He kept his eyelids glued together when Sherlock's mouth left his.

"It's not best for anyone." he heard the boy whisper "Nobody." he kissed him once more, just a short feverish desperate kiss, it almost felt like a kiss to say goodbye, the type of kiss you left on the lips of a lover who was hurrying to get in a car or on a train.

John still kept his eyes shut, his mouth closed as his student left the room.

He did not want to open his eyes, what he'd down to Sherlock just then had been wrong and stupid and it hadn't solved anything at all.

He groaned and rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands. He had made a right royal mess here and it was all his own bloody fault.

What was he going to do? What could he do? It wasn't like he could talk to anybody about this. He sighed, he was well and truly fucked, and he'd brought it all on himself.

…

Mary had been progressively less frosty towards him since Sunday, in fact apart from one or two disdainful looks she was almost back to normal.

For some reason though, her being nice and normal hurt more than when she was having a go at him. It made him feel terrible and guilty as well as a mix of many other unpleasant emotions. Why couldn't she just be angry with him? At least that would make him feel less bad.

Sherlock had been plaguing John's mind all day and it wasn't like his fiancée was making him feel any better. He'd asked her to marry him with the full intention of seeing her walk down the isle and vowing to spend the rest of his life with her, to grown old with her and die beside her. To live a long, happy, fulfilling life married to Mary Morstan, the woman of his dreams. He'd sacrificed a lot to be with Mary, including any inkling of a dream of ever becoming a doctor like he had always longed to be. He did love Mary, he really _really _did, but sometimes it was hard. Not that he loved her any less, just that sometimes she did make it hard for him to love her, only sometimes though. On the worst days when argument sprung up out of nothing, and things weren't going either of their way, or they were both having shit days at work, he would turn to the small corner of his mind that showed him what might have been. He knew he shouldn't do it, he always felt terrible afterwards when she would kiss away the arguments and the insults later.

He felt guilty now, he felt the horrible burning gnawing sensation in his chest. It hurt him to do this. To Mary, and to Sherlock. He didn't deserve either of them and he knew it. Mary deserved someone who would always be loyal to her, and who wouldn't on bad days secretly fantasize about life without her. And Sherlock deserved someone who loved him wholeheartedly, not just making him the boy on the side, and not push him away when he needed them more than ever.

He couldn't abandon Sherlock. Sherlock needed him, now more than ever before, and in all honestly he felt he needed Sherlock just as much.

He sat, absentmindedly gnawing at his bottom lip, contemplating what to do. He couldn't just leave things as they were, he'd made a complete mess of everything and it was up to him to sort it out, not anybody else, him. How? Was talking to Sherlock a good idea? Talking to Mary was absolutely out of the question, so that was off the list. But he'd made it crystal clear to Sherlock mere hours ago that it was a bad idea for them to continue their friendship, meetings? Affair? Whatever it was classified as. But for some absurd reason he felt like he couldn't live like that, he couldn't live with himself knowing that Sherlock didn't want to see or talk to him, that Sherlock _hated _him. Did Sherlock hate him for how he had hurt him? That would be the most terrible thing John could ever do, but he knew he had done it, was doing it, he knew that whatever happened Sherlock would get hurt, and yet again it would be all John's own fault.

He had to talk to Sherlock. He just had to. He stood up and made for the door, only to collide with Mary.

"Oh, hi John." she eyes him, and her reasonably friendly smile faded to be quickly replaced by a frosty suspicious frown "Where are you going?" she asked, sounding even more suspicious and frosty than she looked.

"I need to talk to someone." he told her. It wasn't a lie at least, but it wasn't exactly the truth.

"Who?" she was even sounding angry now, it was like she knew exactly what was going on.

"Oh, nobody you've met, just another teacher from school about a couple of boys in one of my classes getting in fights." this wasn't exactly a lie either, he did need to talk to Greg about the Sherlock-Anderson incident, he left himself a mental note to do that once he had finished talking to Sherlock.

Mary seemed to brighten up a little at this "Well, that's okay, how long do you think you'll be?"

"Oh not long," he assured her "An hour and the absolute most."

"Okay." she stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him briefly on the lips.

The feel of her soft lips against his felt alien all of a sudden. It shouldn't. he didn't know how many kisses he'd shared with her, but this one just felt wrong. He couldn't explain why, it just did. Any other kiss with Mary usually he wanted more and got it, but this one he just wanted to be over as soon as possible. When she pulled away he actually let out a faint sigh of relief.

"So I'll see you later then." she smiled.

"Yeah, later." he gave her one last peck on the cheek before he left.

Why was she doing this? He didn't know what she was thinking at all, one minute she was fuming angry with him and then next she was being positively angelic. Sometimes she could really confuse him. He wasn't sure what she was trying to achieve with all these instant mood changes, he didn't even know if it was working, maybe she was just trying to confuse him. What he did know was that she was confusing him a lot! She could be very manipulative and persuasive when she wanted to be, he'd seen her get what she wanted using this gift of hers, anybody that actually knew her as well as John did would know that she had a dark side hidden beneath her 'good girl' image.

His mind began to drift back to Sherlock.

Lately it was like those two were the only thing he thought about, it was like there was some kind of divide in his brain, one half for his fiancée and the other for his student. His student. John tired to picture things differently, if Sherlock was closer to his age and not his student, and there was no Mary, what would he do then? He'd probably peruse him, go on dates with him, kiss him. He'd like that. But that wasn't the case. He was engaged to marry Mary, and Sherlock was his fifteen year old student.

It took only a few minutes to drive to Baker Estate, but it felt like a lot longer, his thoughts whirring around the inside of his head at a ridiculously fast speed. His surroundings became more and more familiar and he found his way to 221b in less than a minute.

It wasn't cold, but he could feel his knees knocking together, it wasn't exactly fear either. Anticipation, maybe? Nervousness? Unease? All three? He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and knocked.

It took longer this time for the door to open, but this time it was Sherlock. He looked terrible, like he hadn't slept or eaten in weeks, and the last time John had seen him was only a couple of hours ago. His eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks stained red with tear tracks, his usually elegant curls were messed up and he seemed to be trembling. He was only wearing grey boxer shorts and a large black t-shirt on which written was the slogan "Talkin' 'bout my generation", John recognised this slogan from a the song My Generation by The Clash which, including The Smiths, was one of his favourite bands.

"Hi." he breathed.

Sherlock's skinny chest rose and fell in a deep sigh "Hi." he answered in a quite, emotionless voice.

"Can I come it?"

"Well that depends." Sherlock's icy eyes flicked up an down John's body "What do you want?"

"I _need _to talk to you, can I?"

Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip, considering.

"Please?" John couldn't help but notice the desperation in his own voice "Please, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just pushed the door wider so John could enter.

John ignored the open door, stepping forwards he threw both his arms around Sherlock and held him tightly to his chest, resting his head on the boy's shoulder. He could feel Sherlock's arms mirror his embrace.

He pulled away and gently placed a kiss on the tip of Sherlock's nose "I'm sorry." he whispered,

Sherlock still remained silent, he twined his and John's fingers together and lead him to the sofa.

"Where's Jim and Seb and Irene?"

"Out getting pissed, I think."

"Do they leave you alone a lot?"

Sherlock nodded "All the time."

"Don't you ever get lonely?"

He shrugged "Yeah, sometimes."

John leant forward and gave him another kiss on the cheek "I'm sorry." he said again.

"You keep saying that." Sherlock pointed out.

"I am though, sorry, I really am."

That made Sherlock smile a little bit "So…?"

"Now, I'm still sticking with what I said earlier." John warned him "You do realise that this can't continue, don't you?"

Sherlock's smile faded and he bowed his head "Yeah, I know." he looked so small and innocent when he did that, it wasn't making it any easier.

"So really, I came here to just tell you how sorry I am and that I wish things were different."

"Me too." Sherlock added.

"And to say goodbye."

Sherlock once again became silent. He took John's face in his hands, gently stroking his cheek with his thumb, and softly kissed him. It was the first kiss that purely contained raw pure emotion. All the others had been scared, rushed, lusty. This was just… what was it? Passion? Care? Love? John could almost feel like it opened up his whole soul, every cell in his being screaming at him that this was right. But it was wrong. He pulled away, breaking the wonderful kiss.

"I'm sorry." he muttered again "I really am." he could see that this was killing Sherlock, it was killing him too but he tried not to let it show. He brought Sherlock back to his chest in a tight embrace, his fingers gently tracing patterns into Sherlock's back. Sherlock seemed to curl up into a tight ball like a child, but John supposed he was still a child. He could feel Sherlock's rough ragged breathing and tried rubbing circles into his shoulder to calm him.

He didn't know how long he sat there with Sherlock in his arms. He made to prize the boy off him, but Sherlock moved for him, still keeping a tight grip on his fingers.

"I need to go." he told him.

Sherlock shook his head and held firmly to John's hand.

He bent down and gave Sherlock another, rather quick, kiss on the lips, managing to wrench his hand out of Sherlock's vice-like grip before turning to leave.

Sherlock watched him go, silently begging that he hadn't let go and was still stubbornly holding tight to John's hand. He lowered his head down a nuzzled his head into the sofa, there remained the tiniest trace of John's scent, he took a deep breath inhaling the smell that clung to the fabric. He stood up and want into his bedroom, crouching down and crawling under his bed. There was the smallest bit of space under the bed, just enough space for him the nestle in among the cardboard boxes. He reached out his hand into one of the boxes, his fingers wandering until he found what he was looking for. It was a penknife, it had been Jim's but he had stolen it when he was twelve to get back at Jim for being a dick all the time, he had always kept it hidden away in the cardboard boxes under his bed since Jim had never thought to look there before, or since for that matter. Sherlock could remember how angry Jim had been when he couldn't find it, he'd never told a soul about where he had hidden it or what he did with it. There was a piece of rough material next to it in the box, Sherlock had always supposed it had once been part of a towel but he'd never found a towel in the flat with a scrap missing, but anyway it didn't really matter where it was from after all. He reached out a grabbed the material.

It was nice and dark under his bed, this place was like his sanctuary, (a word meaning a safe place in a troubled world, like an oasis in the middle of a deathly dry a desert). Although it was dark, his eyes adjusted quickly to the light and he began to make out shapes and colour around him.

Sherlock stuffed the rough piece of cloth in his mouth, just in case he were to cry out or make a noise, he didn't want anybody to suspect him. His icy-grey eyes prickled with white hot tears. He didn't quite know why he was crying, he hadn't even done anything yet, and anyway he'd been doing this since he was what eleven, something like that, he couldn't remember how old he had been exactly, possibly ten, maybe twelve.

He grabbed his sleeve and pulled it up his white stick-thin arm, trembling slightly as he ran his index finger over the scars along the cold skin of his forearm. There were many scars, somewhere between thirty-five and forty were actually visible but he knew there were more, there was just the smallest colour difference between the white marks and his pale skin complexion. Some of them were long, some were short, some were thick, some were thin, some old, some relatively new, some more obvious than others. He felt a hot tear spill over the rim of his eye, like water boiling in a pan. He gently pressed the smooth blade of the penknife to about an inch above his pulse where some of the more prominent scars were, and slowly, ever so slowly, enforces pressure on the razor sharp blade, the soft skin split an thick dark red blood erupted almost immediately from the fresh wound. He had to fight hard not to cry out, the rough fabric rubbing harshly against the soft inside flesh of his cheek as he choked back sobs. The tears brimming over in his eyes, fogging the vision and flowing down his cheeks, staining the pale white skin and ugly tell-tale red raw colour. It was burning blistering throbbing agony but it seemed to give him an adrenaline rush, just like smoking or fighting always did. Not caring if it hurt, not even caring if he died, he slashed it down again just above the already fresh cut. The blood seemed to flow like every drop was a waterfall , but he didn't care, he repeated the crude morbid act again, screaming into the cloth that muffled the sound of his suffering.

Then suddenly an idea flashed into his head. A terrible, awful, sick idea. He flicked the knife round in the hand so he was holding it like a pencil. He couldn't do it? Could he? Slowly, trembling slightly, 'FOR JOHN' he traced the words softly over the scarred skin, not enough to break the skin but enough to make every single individual hair on his arm stand up on end. He pressed the sharp end of the knife into his arm and drew it sharply up and across to form the letter 'F', it wasn't a particularly deep or thick cut but it still burned and blistered . Tiny droplets of blood dripping from his arm alarmingly fast now. He drew the blade along his arm again, and again, scratching the letters O-R J-O-H-N into his skinny bloodstained forearm.

He shook violently with the sobs nobody could hear. He brought his hand to his face and removed the rough gagging material from his mouth, gently wrapping it around the wounds as a kind of bandage, slowly so as not the damage himself anymore than had already been done.

"I love you." he whispered into the darkness, gently running his fingers despiratly along his bloody manipulated forearm, hot tears staining his usually white cheeks "I love you, John."

**Prologue starting to make sense, ah? I bet you're going to go back to the beginning and re-read the prologue now, right?**

**Anyway, sorry if that was to angsty for you**

**Reviews please **


	9. Black Cloud edited

**I mad a mistake in the last chapter, the song 'My Generation' is a song by The Who and not The Clash, thank you to Marlboro Blanc for pointing that out to me. I'm not an idiot, I love The Who and The Clash, I must just have been having a brain lapse when I wrote that bit, I should really stop writing at 2 in the morning, it's not the best time to write.**

**It did take a surprisingly long time for such a short chapter. The reason for that is that I have been in hospital having my appendix taken out (probably the worst experience of my LIFE so far, I hope it never has to happen to any of you, my lovely readers). So basically I've spent most of the past week in bed at home all high in the sky on painkillers listening to my lovely Morrissey on my iPod. I am in a lot of pain at the moment, I know that that shouldn't really have an affect on my writing skills so really I have no excuse.**

Married. That's what he and Mary were supposed to be doing soon. The very thought of getting married to Mary, a thought he had once longed and dreamed for, now seemed to fill him with an unpleasant feeling. What the feeling was John didn't quite know, but he didn't like it one bit. It seemed to be a mixture of fear, guilt, anger at himself, sadness and nervousness, an it made him feel slightly sick.

And it really wasn't helping with the Sherlock situation.

It had been three days since John had gone to the boy's flat telling him things had to stop. He'd seen Sherlock around the corridors at school and in the year eleven biology class, Sherlock hadn't been at all talkative or social, he'd stayed resolutely silent, not even looking John in the eye, ignoring Anderson's snide remarks from the other side of the classroom about whatever that cunt was teasing the poor boy about now, not answering a single question, even the ones John knew he knew all the answers to and could explain in great detail. He just sat there, did his work and didn't utter a single word.. It was driving John absolutely insane! He Didn't know how much more of it he could take, and it had only been three fucking days! How was he supposed to cope, say in a month? Two months? Six months? What could he do? There was nothing left that he could do, and he hated himself for it. He'd just brought on a whole load of lies, deceit, pain and suffering to the people he cared about most, and he wasn't doing anything to make it any better for anybody. God, he hated himself right now. Like really _really _hated himself, he would have punched himself in the face if only he could for making the people he cared about suffer like this. He truly was a terrible person, and he knew it, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His intense deep thought was momentarily interrupted by the sound of his fiancée's footsteps entering the living room. He looked up for a moment, before returning back to the deep pits of his mind and his self-loathing thoughts.

She came and sat rather uncomfortably close to him, taking his clammy fingers in her small hands of hers "Johnny?" she cooed.

He hated it when anybody called him Johnny, she knew that which made this rather odd, but he didn't let his mind dwell on it "Err…yeah?"

"I was thinking," she said in her sweet-as-honey voice "Maybe next year we could have a summer wedding?" she smiled at him rather expectantly "What do you think?"

"Fine." he shrugged "That's fine."

"No, John!" she pouted "I want you to tell me if it's a good idea or not." God she was annoying when she made that face and did that voice at the same time, one at a time he could stand, but it was just weird with both of them.

He gave his fiancée a very faint, small smile "It's a good idea, I think we should do that." that was pretty much what he'd just said, only with more words and a smile, but it did seem to make her happier.

"That's fantastic." she gave him a warm wide smile which seemed to give him yet another increasingly familiar guilt pierce his already guilt-damaged heart.

She was a very pretty girl. She wasn't particularly beautiful, but she wasn't bad looking. Heart shaped face with lightly sun kissed skin, mid-length mousey brown hair and plump pink lips. She never wore very much make-up, just as small dash of black mascara on her already rather long eyelashes which framed her eyes very well. She had very dark golden-brown eyes, not much different to the colour of caramel.

As he stared into her eyes, he blinked and tried to picture them differently. White skin, hollow sockets, blue veins creeping up around the temples, and the colour a beautiful indescribable colour, not quite grey and not quite blue or green either. The eyes that were the first thing he had noticed about his wonderful student and best friend. Sherlock's eyes.

The beautiful eyes closed and he felt soft lips press against his.

His eyes closed too and his hands immediately sprang up and tangled themselves in the hair. It was the wrong hair, it was too long and it was straight, not the glorious dark thick curls he had been hoping for, but he ignored it and continued to kiss the soft lips, running the tip of his tongue along the bottom lip as he could feel fingers creep to his shirt collar. A slight shiver ran down his spine as the first button was popped out of place.

The lips left his and latched themselves onto his neck, causing a faint moan to escape his own lips.

Still keeping his eyes closed, he let his hands wander about the body of the person he was kissing. It felt wrong. Much too wrong for him to enjoy himself, but he ignored it and let his hands continue to wander, instead trying to imagine something different. He could feel blood rushing to certain areas of his body, cloths become tighter about his groin and beads of sweat begin to glisten across his hairline.

He could feel the fingers slowly making their way up his thigh, into the inner side of his leg very close to his crotch. He let the lightly darting fingers softly stroke his clothed leg, feeling the nerves under his skin begin to prick and spark. He shifted on the sofa, slumping down dragging the other person with him and rekindling the kiss, tongues dancing in each others mouths, hands and fingers fumbling with the other's cloths. He could feel the impatient tugging at the buttons on his shirt and broke this kiss for a second or two, pulling up his shirt up over his head leaving his chest bare, light kisses from the other being peppered along the skin of his shoulder, sparking the nerves, making him shudder.

It felt familiar, and yet it felt alien to him. Like foresight, when you dream about normal things that are going to happen, and when it happens exactly the same as you dream it, even if it's the most normal thing in the world you feel surprised. Very similar to the effect déjà vu has on you.

The hands had found their way to his belt buckle. Creeping fingers quickly undid his fly, sliding him out of his trousers.

He wasn't particularly aroused, in fact, he though if he didn't have such a vivid imagination he'd push whoever it was off him; he tried to concentrate his mind on _his _face. It helped. At least it was enough to make his half-hard cock throb.

The hands hooked hooked themselves around the rim of his boxers. Sliding them down his legs. He wasn't fully erect, but they dipped their finger in their mouth and drew a line of saliva along the underside, base to tip. He shuddered. Not really the type of shudder one would want to experience during this situation. Nobody had ever made him shudder like that before and hopefully never again, it didn't feel good at all, in fact it felt bad, very bad. Cold, unpleasant shivers, like ice water being injected into his veins. Before he could say anything they had taken him in their mouth and began a convulsive sucking. He had to grab hold of the sides of the sofa, letting out a string of uncontrollable shrill whimpers, feeling his body cover with a thin layer of salty sweat as they sucked, feeling pressure form in his body.

He wanted to feel something. Something strong and controlling, passion or lust or desire, but there was nothing there. There just wasn't. Nothing. All was blank.

He squeezed his eyes tight shut and pictured the face of the boy. That wonderful beautiful boy, the boy with the dark curls and the icy-grey eyes and the face that looked like it had been sculpted by the finest sculptors that walked the earth out of white marble. Burning controlling rip-roaring fire pulsed through his whole body as his orgasm hit hard, causing him to cry out.

The other person had gone. All he could do was pant and keep his eyes tight shut. He didn't want to open them, just wanted to lie here, sweaty and practically naked and just breath. Or not breath. Just go to sleep, sleep all day and all night and never wake up. To dream forever of the boy that couldn't he his.

"What did you say?" he heard the other person ask from what felt like a million miles away. Their voice seemed to bring him back to reality. Suddenly he seemed to remember it was Mary. Mary… Mary, the woman he was _engaged _to. A fresh wave of stabbing guilt rushed through his body and he felt like he could just curl up and cry. But he didn't.

"Nothing." he breather "Nothing."

"Yes you did." she argued, her brows knitted together in confusion "You did say something."

"What did I say?" he asked, not really caring what he might have said, his voice still lower volume than usual.

She shrugged, smiled and cuddled up next to him "I don't know." she sighed, gently stroking her fingers across his bare chest "Something about a lock."

He tensed suddenly, but she didn't notice.

She stared playing with his hands and kissing him on the cheek she asked "What's ''lock'?"

"Nothing." he lied, again feeling the rush of burning guilt "It's nothing."

"Okay then John." she kissed his cheek again, resting her head on his chest, listening to his progressively lighter breathing and the sound of his steadily beating heart.

He hated this. He wished, hoped and prayed that there was something he could do. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he had told Mary everything, secrets and hopes and dreams, now their lives seemed riddle and corrupted with lies and deceit. How much worse could things get? Sometimes he just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

…

Sherlock lay. He just lay there. John was gone. Jim was gone. Everybody had gone and left him, get back to their lives and forget all about him.

He heard the familiar melancholic singing voice echo through his headphones.

He mind began to acknowledge what Morrissey was actually saying.

_The one I love is standing near_

_The one I love is everywhere_

_And I can woo you, I can amuse you_

_But there is nothing I can do to make you mine_

_Black cloud, black cloud_

_The one I love roosts in the mind_

_Can snap this spell or increase hell_

_I can chase you and I can catch you_

_But there is nothing I can do to make you mine_

_Black cloud, black cloud_

_Oh, black cloud, oh, black cloud_

_I play the game of favourites now_

_I can, I must, I will, I do_

_And I can please you or I can freeze you out_

_But there is nothing I can do to make you mine_

_Black cloud, black cloud_

_Black cloud_

_I can choke myself to please you_

_And I can sink much lower than usual_

_But there's nothing I can do to make you mine_

Nothing I can do to make you mine


	10. All You Need Is Me

**AN: More excuses but my computer broke down. Just my luck isn't it. We are getting a new one soon though so you guys don't really need to worry so much about that. I need to thank my girlfriend for letting me use her laptop for writing this chapter. Yeah so thank you Jaycee for letting me use your computer, you're lovely **

**Chapter 9**

He seemed to see Sherlock everywhere he went, whatever he did, whoever he was with. Sherlock just seemed to be there.

When he was teaching.

When he was chatting to Greg or Molly or any other of the teachers.

When he was listening to The Smiths.

On those nights he spent with Mary.

Every single day in that week seemed to drag on forever, like each day lasted several long years. Seconds seemed to tick by so slowly, like each one contained a million life times.

It made him feel like he was dying. Like there was an indescribably terrible creature eating away at him from the inside. Burning his fragile heart. Rotting his brain. Feeling his insides fade away. Wishing that he himself would fade away. Cease to exist. Just leave.

But he had things he needed to stay for.

Important people that needed him there. What would he give for them not to need him? And for him not to need them?

Like everybody said. Love was the best and worst thing that can happen to you.

Only he wasn't sure about love anymore. He didn't know who he loved.

He knew Mary was certainly the easier, simpler, _better_ choice. She was just better for him. She was smart and lovely and funny and pretty. He could have a healthy relationship with her, married maybe with children in the future. The typical 'boy meets girl and lives happily ever after' story.

Sherlock, on the other hand… he was just Sherlock, but really that was all he needed to be. He was mysterious, intriguing, captivating, intelligent, venerable, wonderful and beautiful. Sherlock. He needed John, and John was denying him that need. He needed to be cared for, listened to, held, loved. To have someone constantly tell him how amazing and wonderful and special he was. Sherlock deserved that, but John couldn't do that for him.

He wished he could, he really did. He wished with all his heart and soul that he could. But he couldn't.

What meant he couldn't?

Well: the law for starters, any kind of relationship of this nature, what with John's authority and Sherlock's age, was illegal. John knew of court cases like this situation, in which people accused had been given prison sentences and criminal records, as well as being unable to be employed as a teacher again, not to mention public humiliation and a strong lack of respect. Then there was the fact that John was already engaged to 'the love of his life' the 'girl of his dreams'.

How long could he keep this up?

He wanted -fuck that- he _needed _to see Sherlock, talk to him, see how he was. Because if he was anything like John like right now he'd be falling to pieces, fading, crying, feeling alone, just feeling like he wanted the world to just fuck off and leave him alone.

Everyone in the world to fuck off apart from one person. Sherlock.

He raked his fingers though his sandy hair. He felt like stress was causing him to go grey. He didn't want to go grey he was only twenty-five for Christ's sake.

Was it to late to apologise to Sherlock? Was it to late to fix things between himself and his _student_? He could still fix things, couldn't he?

He groaned, raking his nails across his scalp, thinking.

There comes a time in every mans life when he has to just pick himself back up again and move on with his life, to just accept that there is nothing he or anybody else can do to change anything. It's time to forget, the ship has sailed and only an idiot would continue.

Truth was, John had always considered himself a bit of an idiot.

…

Sherlock sat on his bed in the darkened room, the shadows slowly edging closer to him, surrounding him in a pit of darkness, lights for the busy estate emitting a yellowy glow through the window above his bed, giving his small room the perfect balance between light and dark, the noise of the busy city buzzing about his ears.

He kind of felt like he was drowning. The dark shadows surrounding him, pressing into every cell of his body, building pressure on his empty lungs, the busy world seeming almost a million miles away, blinding him, choking him, killing him.

He sniffed and rubbing his sore red eyes he lowered himself into a lying down position, his head sinking into his pillow, bringing his knees up under his chin and locking his long skinny arms around them.

He didn't want to move. He'd happily stay in his position until the world he knew caved in around him.

He heard a car alarm go off somewhere down in the Estate car park, but he ignored it, nuzzling his head deeper into his pillow in a half-hearted attempt to make the noise fade away, which it did slightly.

A different noise echoed through the almost deserted flat. What was it? Was somebody knocking at the door? He shifted his gaze through his bedroom door to see the front door. It was probably Seb or Irene not being bothered to find the keys to the door. Usually when this happened Sherlock just waited in the flat until they could be bothered to the find their keys, which depending on their mood he sometimes got a slap across the face for. He didn't really tend to answer many knocks, ever since he had been ten years old and the 'incident' -as Jim called it- had occurred. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, _No! _he did not want to remember that, he did not want to think about that, he had nearly gone a whole day without thinking about that, and he did not want to think about it now, not in the state he was in.

He heard the knocking again.

He may as well just let in whoever it was, it's not like they could make him more miserable than he was. He climbed off his bed and in minimal steps he was already unbolting the door.

Turns out maybe the could.

He was greeted with the sandy-haired, blue eyed biology teacher.

It was John.

For a second or two Sherlock really didn't know what he'd rather do. He wanted to scream and shot, to laugh and cry, to both hug embrace and hug the man in front of him. He wanted to shake John, make him understand, he wanted to just hold him tightly in his arms, and this time he would not let go of him.

"I thought you said we shouldn't talk anymore?" he asked, trying and seeming succeeding to keep his poker face, to remain in control, to not show John anything, and emotion, or fear, nothing.

John shrugged, his lips curled slightly in a hurt guilty smile "Yeah, but I'm always wrong aren't I?"

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off John, sill keeping his face as blank of everything as he could "you're not _always _wrong." he allowed "Just sometimes, like this time for example."

"Sherlock, I…" John started.

But he was silenced by Sherlock's chapped lips. God he had missed that. He held on tightly to the boy, feeling the long arms mirror his embrace.

"How are you?" he asked once the kiss was over, not really sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"I've been better, you?" Sherlock answered in his dry, cracked and croaky voice.

John shrugged ""I'm doing pretty shit myself."

"Well that makes two of us then." he flicked his head towards the inside of the flat, his curls bobbing as he did "Are you actually going to come in, or are you just going to stay outside on the dodgiest estate in London in the dark?"

John shifted past Sherlock into the quickly darkening flat. Nobody was home it seemed, other than Sherlock himself of course. Somehow the flat seemed smaller. Like the walls were closing in, constricting his chest.

Sherlock silently moved around John and plonked himself down on the sofa, indicating to John to do the same. And as he did, John noticed something on Sherlock's arm. Something that he had been half-expecting, but still sent shock waves through his whole body.

"Sherlock," he breathed, steadying his voice, trying to let anything show in it "What have you got on your arm."

The boy seemed to know instantly that he had been found out because a sudden panicky look washed over his pale bony face "Nothing." he mumbled.

"Sherlock." he stopped him before he could deny anything else "Don't. Just don't. Please tell me the truth. Please don't lie to me." he begged.

The looked at each other for a rather long moment. Eyes boring into the other's. Sherlock seemed to break under John's stare because his long fingers crept down and hooked themselves around the bottom of his sleeve, edging it up his arm.

What John saw made him want to throw up.

Across Sherlock's skinny white wrist and forearm were scattered burning red cuts in the white skin, and seemingly glowing there, etched into the flesh.

_For John_

"Why Sherlock?" John gulped, staring down at the ugly markings across the innocent lovely boy's arm.

Sherlock hung his head in shame "Because I need you John," he said in a barely audible whisper "And I can't have you."

"Sherlock, listen to me," John placed two fingers under Sherlock's chin and tilted his face to his so they were eye level "You can have whatever you want from me."

Sherlock gazed directly into John's eyes. John couldn't help but notice once again how old his eyes were in comparison to his youthful face. Old icy-grey eyes, eyes that had seen to much to young.

Sherlock slowly leaned foreword and gently pressed his soft thin lips to John's. John didn't react at first, he remained stationary as Sherlock's soft mouth gently bumped against his own. Every though, every idea, every reason all slowly slimmed from John's mind, he found himself just blank. All that seemed to exist was him and Sherlock.

John noticed how taught , he gently coaxed the boy's mouth open and ran his tongue lightly across Sherlock's bottom lip, Sherlock visibly relaxing with John's action. John had never experienced a feeling quite like this before, he had kissed many people in his life, but when he kissed Sherlock he felt like a whole part of his life that hadn't been there was now here with him, he hadn't even known he was missing something. But right now, with Sherlock here he knew just how much he had been missing, and somewhere deep down he knew it was meant to be like this, like this was the only person he was supposed to kiss for the rest of his life.

He lifted his arms and twined them around Sherlock, holding the boy tight to his chest as if silently trying to tell him that he would never ever let go.

A cluster of emotions seemed to spill about his mind. But most of all he was scared, scared that Sherlock would want him to stop, no matter what every moral thought in his head screamed at him, he didn't want to stop.

And neither did Sherlock it seemed. The boy seemed just as eager as he did, fumbling with his long fingers in John's hair in giddy anticipation.

He hooked his fingers around the mouth of Sherlock's t-shirt, and breaking the kiss for mere milliseconds, pulled the shirt up off Sherlock's head.

He let his lips trail down Sherlock's jaw and across the white pallid skin of his neck, his hands tracing the planes of his chest.

"John." he heard Sherlock stammer.

He raised his head "Yeah?"

The young man almost looked like he had been drugged. His eyes were wide, burning with some form of icy fire "John, we're on my sofa… in my living room."

"If you make a mess, you're cleaning it up because I'm not doing it." John interjected before Sherlock could continue.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile, he brought his mouth back to John's, his fingers fumbling with the zipper of John's jacket.

Mary? Who was Mary? This was Sherlock, and Sherlock was a million times better than anybody else. Adrenaline and lust just seemed to cloud his mind and he reacher for the rim of the boy's trousers.

"John." Sherlock stopped him again.

He pulled away again, wondering why he had been interrupted again "What?"

"We're still here." Sherlock pointed out, a slight flash of amusement flash across his young face at John's annoyance.

John rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around Sherlock tightly and lifted him up, marvelling at how light the younger man was.

"John!" Sherlock squirmed in John's arms, giggling as he was carried to his own room and placed on his bed in a sitting position.

"There." said John, unbuckling his belt and sliding his trousers down his legs, indicating to Sherlock to do the same which he did without hesitation or question "Are you happy now?"

Sherlock grinned rather smugly "Yes I am, very."

"You are an absolute twat you know." John added, kissing him again.

He felt Sherlock smile against his lips "Yeah I know."

Sherlock wasn't wearing anything now, apart from his boxer shorts that were becoming increasingly uncomfortable and tight, and John wasn't far behind him, pulling his own shirt up over his head.

Sherlock couldn't believe it. John was here, on his estate, in his flat, in his room, on his bed, kissing him. Was this real? Or just some wild wonderful fantasy. He silently prayed that it wasn't the latter.

His fingers wandered to his biology teacher's face, feeling the smooth yet stubbly texture of his skin, inhaling the smell of hair product and aftershave and… what was it? Marmite. His breath smelling the tiniest bit of Marmite. He tightened his grip on his teacher, holding him tighter, telling him not to let go of him.

John wrenched his mouth off Sherlock's "get on your back." he told the boy.

Sherlock did as he was told, laying down on his bed, his curly haired head sinking into his pillow, his icy blue-grey eyes wide with ecstasy in their hollow sockets.

John leant over the boy, bringing his legs up so he straddled his hips, bringing his head back up to his student's white neck, gently running his lips slowly and erotically along the skin of his neck. Smiling privately to himself as he heard the boy gasp and grip the bed sheets.

This was it. Now he had found it he finally realised how lost he had been, Stumbling around in the dark for so long, it was Sherlock, Sherlock had turned on the lights.

He found himself hugging the boy tighter, filling any and every millimetre of space between them, holding his as close as he could. Sherlock's lips very dry and John ran the tip of his tongue along them and into the boy's mouth, their tongues dancing together.

Every touch under his fingers, the taste with his tongue, the scent inhaled through his nose seemed to send him into an ever dizzier state of mind. Every barrier between him and Sherlock - school, age, people, responsibility - all seemed to come crashing down, crumbling at their feet. Nothing seemed to matter except Sherlock. At that moment in time John didn't care about anything or anybody else.

Lifting his lips off Sherlock's, trailing them along his jaw and down his neck and chest to the line of Sherlock's boxer shorts, his fingers slowly hooked around the rim of the shorts, glancing up at the boys' face, almost asking permission.

Sherlock bit his lip, then nodded, giving his consent.

He slowly drags the boxers down, revealing the dark hair underneath as well as…..

John couldn't help but smile as he kissed Sherlock again, allowing the boy to do the same to him. Twining their naked bodied together, feeling their erections rub raw together.

"You are brilliant." John murmured "You are fucking fucking brilliant Sherlock." his arms locked around him.

Sherlock didn't seem able to reply, seeming to have lost all ability to speak, or _think _for once in his life, he couldn't even string two simple thoughts together, everything was just a dizzy fuzzy haze of confusion and anticipation. "John?" was all apparently he could say.

John broke the kiss, pulling his head away to gaze at his student, naked, flushed cheeks, eyes wide "Yeah?"

"What about…?"

John knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it, he brought his index finger and placed it over Sherlock's lips mid-speech "Shut up." he told him "Don't say that name, don't make me feel guilty."

Sherlock blinked up at him, his eyes still wide "I'm sorry."

John lowered his head down to the crook of Sherlock's neck, planting kisses across the marble skin "Don't be sorry." he mumbled "I want to be here with you, just like this."

Sherlock smiled "This is where I go all _The Exorcist _on you isn't it?" he paused, smiling slightly at John expression of utter confusion "You know, fuck me, fuck me." he said it so simply and casually it made John snort with laughter.

"You're so weird." he chuckled "She was twelve, and please don't make me think about that film."

"And you're an idiot, now shut up and do with me as you please."

Rekindling the kiss John slipped his hand between their bodied. Sherlock gave s slight shiver, his eyes jammed shut, trying to preserve this moment in his cloudy mind, not wanting to forget probably the best goddamn moment of his life so far.

The older man curled his fingers around Sherlock's erection carefully so as not to hurt him. A sharp intake of breath escaped Sherlock's lips as John gave a long slow stroke of his length. The boy's bony fingers squeezed rather painfully into John's muscle and he thrust against his palm, the nails on his hand clawing slightly at his teacher. John rubbed him again , causing a string of course moans from Sherlock. He kissed Sherlock with such enthusiasm and confidence it felt like the dreamlike Hollywood cliché of being kissed for the very first time, how brilliant and special and new it all is to you, and you can see fireworks erupt beneath your eyelids, and you really don't want it to end.

The cried out at the same time, the name of the other each clinging to their lips as their simultaneous orgasms hitting them like a double-decker bus, sending fire through their bodies. John held the boy tightly in his arms as his student shuddered, semen coating their skin. Correction, _this _was the best goddamn moment of Sherlock's life so far.

Nothing seemed to need saying for a minute or two. John rolled off Sherlock, laying on the bed next to him, both of them breathing rather heavily.

"Well…" was all Sherlock was able to say.

It was almost completely dark now, the city lights still emitting the yellow light through the window by the bed.

"I wish I was girl." Sherlock said after a silence that spanned several minutes.

John turned to stare at him, his eyebrows mashed together creating a look of utter confusion and bewilderment on his boyish features "What? Why?"

Sherlock turned to face him and grinned "Multiple orgasms of course." he explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John snorted with laughter "You're so weird."

"You've already said that." Sherlock pointed out, lifting his arm up ad shifting his body around, wrapping John into a tight hug and planting a light kiss on his cheek. John snuggled up to Sherlock, holding him close, nuzzling his head in Sherlock's neck.

…

He must have fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms because the next time he opened his eyes there was faint yellowy sunlight shining through the window, beams of light shining into the tiny room.

One of his arms was still wrapped around Sherlock who lay next to him. He looked so innocent when he was sleeping, his lisp slightly parted, he eyelids just about closed covering the eyes that reflected years much greater than his own, his black curls framing his angular face with his high cheekbones seeming softer looking, the black of his hair contrasting perfectly with his pale white skin, his long limbs brought up tight to his body in the foetal position. Even the horrible burning cuts on his wrists seemed less sharp and horrific.

John leant down and kissed the boy's cheek, trying not to wake him.

"I'm not asleep you know." Sherlock breathed, opening his shockingly blue eyes.

"Oh. Good morning." he kissed his cheek again "How long have you been awake?"

"I didn't go to sleep." Sherlock smiled, blinking his big blue eyes innocently.

"Well you should, when I go you are going to get some sleep, understood?"

"Yes sir," Sherlock raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute "Understood."

A thought suddenly dawned on John "Where's Jim?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, sitting up in bed next to his … teacher? Lover? "I don't know, he'll be around, they probably got so pissed that they couldn't even remember the way to get home, they do that sometimes." he added, bitterness showing in his voice.

"Why do you live with him if you don't like him?" John asked, curious.

Sherlock gave him a look, evidentially questioning if he was stupid or not "John, if I had a choice do you honestly think that I'd still be here?"

"No." John answered, he knew he wouldn't want to live in this awful shitty estate, and especially not if your dad was Jim Moriarty and his threesome relationship partners "But isn't there anywhere else you can go?"

"No." Sherlock lay his head down on John's shoulder, his glossy curls gently tickling John's cheek, twining their fingers together.

"You could stay with me." John suggested.

"Oh yeah," agreed Sherlock sarcastically "Because I'm sure Mary would just love that, wouldn't she? I'm sure me and her would just be the best of friends, I'm sure we'd get on like a house on fire." he gave John another 'are you stupid?' look.

Mary. John felt a fresh stab of guilt. Sherlock seemed to detect that it was him that had caused it.

"I'm sorry." he whispered, squeezing John's hand.

"It's not your fault." John leaned over to kiss the tip of Sherlock's nose "But if you do ever need anything," he added "I'm here for you, you know that? You just ask me and I'll come running, yeah?"

"Really?"

"I promise, I give my word on it."

Sherlock gave a tiny smile "Thank you."

"What time is it?"

"Half six in the morning."

"I have to get back."

Sherlock bowed his head slightly, obviously disheartened "Ok."

John twisted round rubbing his eyes and scanning Sherlock's tiny bedroom for his cloths, ducking down to pick up his trousers and shirt that were strewn on the floor and pulling them on, his jacket evidentially still in the other room.

"I love you." Sherlock blurted before he could stop himself.

John turned and stared at him in shock, not sure what to reply.

It was like a light bulb had been turned on in his head. Staring in the boy's large old blue eyes he realised. Sherlock. He was in love with Sherlock.

"I love you too." he breathed in a barely audible whisper that only Sherlock would have been able to hear.

The both stared at each other for before they grinned at each other.

"Right… I love you." John repeated, leaning down and kissing Sherlock again.

Sherlock chuckled, sitting fully up in bed.

"Ok, I have to go now, but I love you." he planted one last kiss on Sherlock's smiling lips and turned to leave.

**Fucking hell that took me forever to write. I hope it was worth the wait for all my lovely readers though, again sorry it took so long **

**Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long as this one did**

**If you love me for this chapter then you're going to absolutely hate me when you read the next chapter, I'm not going to say anything, but you will hate me, so sorry in advance **

**I wonder if we can get to 100 reviews in this chapter, probably not, but we can try **

**If you review I will let you have a ride on my virtual rainbow-unicorn-llama and you will also get imaginary cookies**


	11. Boyfriend in a Coma

**WARNING: This chapter contains extreme angst!**

**AN: Also I am writing this on my brand new (second hand) laptop. Its glittery because my 5 year old sister spilt glitter glue on it the day after I bought it****I re-wrote this chapter THREE TIMES to try and get it right, and to be honest I'm still not that thrilled about it, but I had made you guys wait long enough so here it is anyway.**

**Side note: ****Mycroft is married with kids in this.**

John lay in bed in the dark room**, **blinking lights from phone chargers and electric appliances flashing around him. He could hear -but he didn't look around to see- Mary breathing in her heavy state of sleep. He himself couldn't sleep. There seemed to be an impending sense of doom surrounding him. He didn't know what it was, but something -somehow- seemed wrong. Like everything had been too go to be true.

He loved Sherlock. He knew that now. And Sherlock, for some utterly bewildering reason, loved him too.

Something didn't add up, and it wasn't Mary -although it was that too- no, something wasn't right.

When he'd seen those bloody cuts and words on Sherlock's arm, he'd wanted to break down and cry. Just the thought that the wonderful boy would even want to hurt himself in that way, or any way, made John feel sick to his stomach. Made him feel like he'd failed his duty, as not just a friend or a lover but was a teacher in a position or authority as well as a man of medical knowledge, he should have been able to protect Sherlock and prevent him from doing anything like that ever. Ever though with Sherlock his responsibilities and position of authority as Sherlock's teacher seemed to lie in tatters.

Sherlock was a very fragile boy. Well when the equation included -or rather didn't include- John he was.

He was dangerous. He was a danger to himself rather than anybody else. John might never have finished medical school, but he was pretty sure that it wasn't just Aspergers that Sherlock seemed to suffer from, cripple under.

Anxiety?

Depression?

Whatever it was it caused him a lot of pain, and John didn't like that at all, not one bit.

Mary stirred slightly in her sleep next to him and he turned to look at her pretty face.

The memories and thoughts he had shared with her, that once upon a time he had considered to be the best times of his life. He smiled, remembering the six months it had taken to persuade her to go out on a date with him, first dates, first kisses, first times. A lot of things had happened in that time he had been in medical school. He'd fallen in love with a nice girl named Mary. He didn't regret it, not really. He had learnt a hell of a lot from being with her. She was by no means his first, not in kisses or love or sex or anything like that, but he had hoped that she would have been the last. But then of course along came bloody Sherlock fucking Holmes.

He did still love Mary, he loved them both even thought he knew he shouldn't. Usually you end one relationship before moving onto the next one. That's what you're supposed to do, that's what moral people do. And it was illegal, not just the fact that Sherlock was his student, but that Sherlock was a minor, he was underage. Even though he was, it was strange to think of Sherlock as only being fifteen years old.

Only fifteen years old. Nearly eleven years younger than John was.

It was a lot of difference now, and maybe even in the future too, such as when John was forty and Sherlock was thirty. Who really knew? At least it wasn't as much of an age difference as some. Hadn't Christopher Isherwood been forty-eight when he and eighteen year old Don Bachardy had begun their life-long love affair as one of the first publicly gay couples in America?

He took several deep breaths and rubbed his sleepy eyes. He was tired, but he just couldn't sleep.

_Ring ring ring ring _

Phone? Who was calling at -he checked his alarm clock on his bedside table- half two in the morning?

Who does that? Nobody. It just isn't done. You don't call somebody at home after 9 o'clock unless they're expecting you, that's just the rule. 2:30 in the morning is just beyond ridiculous.

"John?" he heard Mary call from next to him, her voice quiet and sleepy "Who's calling?"

"I'll get it." John told her, quickly pecking her cheek and sitting up, faking his own tired voice. He picked up the phone, there was no called ID. "Hello?" he asked, still pretending to sound like he had also just been awoken from a deep sleep.

"Hello, is this John Watson?" asked a slightly brisk and upper class sounding voice, also sounding tired, but also rather worried and concerned.

"Err…yeah, this is John Watson."

"Are you friend of Sherlock's?" the voice asked.

John felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Who was this person and why were they asking about Sherlock? What did they know? "Who is this?"

"Answer the question please Mr Watson." the voice said, sounding rather annoyed and impatient.

Friend of Sherlock's? Friend of Sherlock's? In all honesty John still didn't know what he was to Sherlock. "Yes, yes I am Sherlock's friend. Now can you please tell me who this is?"

He heard an impatient sigh down the phone "My name is Mycroft Holmes, I'm Sherlock's brother. I'm assuming he hasn't told you about me."

"No, no he told me about you." John interrupted him, no longer faking his sleep voice, all traces of genuine tiredness gone. Then he thought. What did Mycroft Holmes want with him? "What's happened?" feeling the impending sense of doom instantly grow more prominent.

"Can I ask you something Mr Watson?" Sherlock's brother asked coolly.

"Will you answer my question if you do?" John replied.

"My question, I imagine, will probably explain a lot of what I'm assuming you are going to ask." God this man was annoying.

"Sure, whatever."

"Where you aware that my little brother has been a frequent drug user for some time now?"

John suddenly started to panic, and his whole boy shook rather unpleasantly. Oh God, what had Sherlock done? "No, what happened?"

"Where you aware that Sherlock has been doing any drugs or has done any at all Mr Watson?" the older Holmes brother asked, sounding ridiculously calm.

John had to think back hard for a moment or two "yes…he told me he tried LSD once." he could remember that day quite well, that had been the day he had first kissed Sherlock, when they were playing that game of twenty questions. God that day felt like years and years ago. Four weeks. Only four weeks. One month. Then the sense behind Mycroft's question began to kick in "Oh God, what's he done?" his own voice sounded dead and emotionless.

The voice of Sherlock's inhumanly calm older bother continued "Mr Watson, would you mind coming to the hospital? I'd like to have a talk to you, man to man, about y baby bother." Man to man?

"Hospital?! Mr Holmes, please listen to me-"

"No Mr Watson." Mycroft interrupted him "This isn't your place to talk, we are discussing Sherlock and his well being, is that understood Mr Watson?"

John stood up off his bed, quickly pulling a cotton jumper on over his t-shirt "Yes sir." he paused before chancing it again "but is Sherlock ok?"

"I don't believe that is your concern Mr Watson"

"Well I bloody believe that it is my fucking concern, Mr Holmes." John snapped down the phone, sticking both his legs through his jeans and pulling them up to his waist and fastening them with his belt.

He heard the other man sigh rather impatiently down the phone "Just get in the car, Mr Watson."

John paused for a second, trying to make sense out of the last statement "What car?"

Another annoyed sigh "The car pulling up outside your house, Mr Watson."

How did this man know where he lived? Had ha been tracking him? What else did he know? "Ok." he hung up the phone, and tiptoed to the door as quietly as he could so as not to wake Mary.

"John?" apparently it hadn't worked "Where are you going?"

He tuned back around. Her hair was matted, he rather ratty old pink pyjamas were twisted about her body and her eyes were half glued together with sleep.

"I have to go to the hospital, love." he explained, sitting back down on the bed next to her.

"Why?" she asked, rubbing her eyes and sitting up in bed.

"I have to go see a friend of mine." he -sort of- lied.

"_This _early in the morning?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him, looking rather grumpy and suspicious.

"I know and I'm sorry." he apologised, kissing her forehead "Go back to sleep, I'll give you a call in a few hours, ok?"

She still looked slightly disgruntled, buy gave him a nod her head, giving her approval for him to go to the hospital.

"Thank you." he quickly pecked her lips and stood back up.

He hurried down the stairs as quick as h could, not wanting to make any noise, which honestly on theses stairs was a lot harder in practice than in theory. His feet felt like lead and his mind was all clouded.

What had Sherlock done?

The big black car had pulled up just outside the front door, surprisingly close to the curb he noticed as he closed the front door of the house. With trembling fingers he opened the car door and poked his head inside.

It was surprisingly bright on the inside of the car and everything was made out of tight mat-black leather. It was very different to anything on Baker Estate. After their parents died the Holmes brothers appeared to have gone on to live very different lives. Mycroft to university, a career in poetics and nice cars; and Sherlock to Jim and Baker Estate, and drugs and self harm. Just how different they seemed to be made John shudder. He and Harry weren't like that. Sure they lead different lives, but not this different.

There was a pretty girl already seated in the car, she looked up and smiled at him. It was an oddly blank smile, the sort of smile you give someone at a funeral for comfort. She was a professional looking woman, probably around the same age as John himself, dressed in a perfectly tailored pin-striped suit with a blackberry in her hands. "Hello John." she smiled again as he clambered into the car next to her, this time as if to welcome him, but it still had that oddly comforting feel to it.

"Err… hello." John didn't exactly have anything to say "Erm…what's your name?"

"Anthea." she answered, returning ot her blackberry and evidently deciding that he wasn't worth wasting her breath in making conversation with him. Anthea. The name stirred something in John's memory. Had Sherlock ever mentioned her before?

He looked her up and down for a moment or two "You're not married to Mycroft, are you?"

She looked back up at him, looking rather pleasantly surprised and nodded.

The car pulled out and John and the woman who was apparently Sherlock's sister-in-law sat rather awkwardly in silence. What are you supposed to say in this situation? Nothing, there is nothing that you can say 'Oh hi. I'm John. I'm engaged to a woman, but I gave your husband's fifteen year old brother hand last night even though he's my student. No, just no.

But really John didn't seem to need to worry too much about that because she wasn't really paying him that much attention, in fact she barely glanced at him as they drove along. He wasn't entirely sure whether he was grateful to her for this or not. He was shaking rather badly, twisting and winding his clammy fingers together. He could almost feel Sherlock's icy blue-grey stare. It hurt. So much that he had to squeeze his eyes closed.

He felt the car come to a stop.

…

Mycroft Holmes sat rather unnervingly upright in the plastic hospital chairs. Mycroft had never really liked hospitals, the smelt odd and everything was inhumanly clean, not that he objected tot that at all.

He had the look of somebody who grew up to fast. Mentally rather than physically. He couldn't be older than twenty-six years, and yet he seemed to possess a knowledge and wisdom that seemed to be much greater than his years, not dissimilar to his younger brother. Although you could see the obvious family resemblance between the tow brothers there were some obvious differences: Where Sherlock was skinny, Mycroft was rather plump, Mycroft also seemed to have a receding hairline, unlike his brother with his full head of glossy black curls.

He was dressed in a neatly pressed pale grey suit and at his side was an umbrella.

His eyes (that were a similar shape but a different colour to his brothers) flicked about the hospital waiting room, again not unlike Sherlock would have been doing. There were very few people there, five people in total, including himself and Jim who was leaning his back against the wall about three metres away from Mycroft looking lightly bored. that's was just like Jim to be bored at a time like this.

His phone bleeped and he flicked it out to read the text

_John Watson at hospital - AH x_

He couldn't help but smile slightly at his wife's initials.

He stood up, hearing the plastic seat make a rather annoying squeak noise, and beckoned to Jim to come over, which he did, grumbling rather incessantly to himself.

A young sandy haired man entered the waiting room. He looked a bit of a mess, his hair was matted and stuck out at odd angles and he had obviously dressed in a haste. And he had a raw terror in every element of his being. If Mycroft didn't hate him he might feel sorry for him.

The man seemed to recognise Jim and hurried over tot hem with a rather crazed panicked look in his eyes.

Mycroft couldn't really see anything particularly appealing about this man. He was rather average looking in fact. Nothing special or unique about him.

"Mr Watson?"

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked straight away, his voice shaky.

"I-" Mycroft began.

"Where do you think he is?" Jim butted in "Oh he's at home," he glared sarcastically at John "He's just fine, why wouldn't be? Whatever gave you the impression that he wasn't?"

"Jim-" John began.

But Jim's hands had already leapt to his throat, pinning him up against the pale blue hospital walls "What did you do?" he hissed, so close to John's face that specklets of spit hit his face. If looks could kill then John would have been dead in milliseconds.

"I didn't do anything." John protested weakly, withering under Jim's deadly murderous gaze. "I didn't." Jim's vice-like grip tightened slightly, nearly making him gag.

"Jim." Mycroft interjected before Jim strangled John, making them both turn to stare at him "Don't strangle him please."

Jim glared at his adopted son's brother "Why? It's his fault." he snapped.

"What's me fault?" John piped up, rather bravely considering Jim's rather painful grip on his neck "Can somebody please tell me what's happened?"

John brought his hands off John's neck and tucked them into the pockets of his jeans, scowling from John to Mycroft with contempt on his shadowy face, leaning back against the wall and keeping his mouth firmly closed, apparently not wishing to make eye contact with either of them, glaring around the room at the other people as if he wished them nothing but ill, all of them seemed too tired to notice the scuffle.

John turned to Mycroft "Please… what's happened to Sherlock?"

Mycroft's chest heaved in a deep sigh. How damaged was his baby brother really? Very, evidentially. He was too young, he was much too young. For everything on this. And this… this man wasn't helping any of that. But he did care a lot about Sherlock. If it was one thing the Holmes' were good at, it was reading people. Mycroft could see it in his eyes, they were slightly moist and his eyebrows were slightly creased in what appeared to be concern or worry.

"Just tell me this Mr Watson. Why Sherlock?"

John blinked several times and bowed his head "I don't know." he said honestly "I really don't know Mr Holmes."

"Temazepam."

"What?"

"Oh you went to medical school!" Mycroft snapped "You know what it is."

John's medical knowledge began to kick in despite the early hour. It was a prescribed drug for insomnia, can also be used anti-anxiety. When overdosed (especially when ingested with alcohol) can lead to fatality…. "And he…?" John didn't want to have to say the words himself.

"Yes."

John's legs suddenly felt oddly jelly-like and weak, so much that he staggered backwards, his back colliding with the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, his face in his hands.

Mycroft felt rather torn. On one hand he felt as Jim felt, that everything was this man's fault, that it was because of him that this had happened to his baby brother and he hated him for it, and wanted him to suffer for it; but on the other hand it seemed to be evident that he did care about Sherlock a lot.

When John finally spoke it was in a hushed pained voice, muffled by his fingers "Is he okay?"

Mycroft sighed again, twining his long fingers around the handle of his umbrella "He'll live."

John raised his head suddenly, a flash of hope cross his miserable face "He will?"

"This time he will." Jim raised his voice from the corner, still not looking at either of them.

"Jim!"

"What! Mykie, he's done it before but never this bad, he's gonna do it again, and next time it'll be worse!" he snapped at Mycroft, now making direct eye contact with him, almost as if his manic eyes would pierce though him like knives, a slightly crazed look on his face.

"Jim-" Mycroft began again.

"No Myke! It's his fault!" Jim practically yelled, his gaze lingering on John "I didn't do anything this time, this time it was _him_!"

"Jim! Shut-"

"Can I see him?" John interrupted before either of them had anymore time to yell at the other one. They both turned to stare at him sitting on the floor, both looking rather speechless and angry. "Please?"

For a second Jim looked like he was going object, but he remained silent, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"Erm, Mr Watson, are you sure? I think-"

"Please." John practically begged, pulling himself up off the floor "I _need _to."

"Mr Watson, go home to your fiancée." Mycroft dismissed him, turning back to Jim as is if to continue the argument.

"No." John said simply.

Mycroft turned back and studied him for a moment or two. He was rather shorter than Mycroft had anticipated him to be, and slightly thinner too. He didn't look like he _wanted _to hurt Sherlock, or anyone for that matter, quite the opposite in fact. And he appeared to acting a hell of a lot braver than he felt.

He sighed "very well."

"Myke!"

"Jim! We can let him _see_ Sherlock."

John glared at them as if he wished nothing better than to stab them both "Fine," he turned away from Mycroft and hissed in John's ear so only he could hear him "where were you when that boy was choking on his own vomit, eh Johnny-Boy?"

John suddenly felt a rush of hatred for the man in front of him. All he wanted was to cause him as much pain as he could, make him suffer like Sherlock was. But the thought of Sherlock calmed him, kept him still. Wonderful, delicate, beautiful Sherlock. The smell, taste, feel of him. Sherlock…

He became aware that he was following Mycroft down one of the hospital corridors, his feet carrying him without him actually paying much attention to how they got him there. Mycroft had obviously pulled a few strings to get Sherlock his own private room.

They approached a door towards the end of the corridor. John could feel his heart pounding in his throat, his fingers trembling, almost his brain rattling around in his skull.

Mycroft stared at John "You have a tremor in your hand." he stated rather inquisitively.

John glanced at him "Yeah, I've had it ever since I was a kid, I used to limp too but not so much anymore."

Mycroft watched him for a moment, and jerked his head to the door. He could see the terror in the other man's eyes, like a dark twisted burning agony, almost like it was rotting or eating him.

Mycroft leant his head against the wall feeling utterly useless.

Not only had he failed to see this coming, but he had just blatantly disregarded his baby brother, he had failed his duty their parents had entrusted him with when they died, to look after his brother and stop him from coming to harm. Which not only could he have stopped, but was he was also partially responsible for. He heard John go into the room, but he stayed outside, still with his head against the wall. He had been a young ambitious eighteen year old with a promising future, he had been stupid and immature and arrogant and he had lost sight of what was really important. He should have looked after Sherlock. He could have done it, in hindsight he would have done it. He was perfectly capable of raising a child, he already had one of his own. But he had been to ambitious to care, and had left Sherlock with Jim , thinking everything would be ok. And now, he hadn't seen or spoken to Sherlock in eight years, Sherlock was in an illegal romantic-sexual relationship with his biology teacher, cutting himself, smoking God knows what, and overdosing on drugs. He could have stopped it, whenever and however he wished. But he was too goddamn superficial to rescue his own brother.

…

John had tears blossoming in his eyes as he tightly held onto Sherlock's hand on his white hospital bed sheets. He could feel the movement of the boy's chest moving up and down as he breathed in and out slowly and quietly. The horrible scratches on his arms hadn't been bandaged up yet, and the words seemed to burn into his eyes, even when he closed them the words still shone brightly through his eyelids. Greg Jim and Mycroft were right, he should have stayed away from Sherlock Holmes. But no. He loved Sherlock and he didn't regret giving him somebody who cared about him, he regretted this though. Sherlock, dying. If he did die did that mean John had unintentionally killed him? What might happen? It was hardly ethical for a teacher to have a relationship with a student, and especially not to be the cause of their…. This.

He trembling fingers traced Sherlock's hollow white cheek. He looked so small like this. He lay on top of the white sheets, one of his arms at his side and the other draped across his stomach, that was gently moving up and down as he inhaled and exhaled. He appeared to be dressed in the cloths he must have been wearing when he took the pills because they were similar to the cloths John had always seen him in outside of school. His eyes were closed and his pale pink lips slightly parted, his black curls greatly over exaggerating his drained looking skin. He looked almost like he was just sleeping on a normal day apart from the clear tube that was inserted into his nose that was probably a glucose drip. There was also a needle in his hand that had a bandage wrapped around it that must be how either an antibiotic or a painkiller was being transmitted into his body. He looked so peaceful, almost like ha had about eighteen hours ago. Had he been planning this while John was there? When had he decided to do this? Spur of the moment? Or had it been forming and manifesting in his mind for weeks, months even?

John leant up and gently as he could, pressed his shaky lips to Sherlock's cold cheek. He ran his thumb along Sherlock's white knuckles and kissed the back of his hand, resting his head on the sheets by Sherlock's waist.

He took a few deep breaths and spoke "I love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Sherlock. I really really am." he blinked back moisture in his eyes and lifting his fingers up to run them across the many cuts and scars across Sherlock's thin arms. He wanted to kiss every single one, every mark, every little scratch. He wanted to hold and awake and well and happy Sherlock in his arms. Kiss him and tell him everything would be ok, and mean it, know that everything _would _be ok. That they would be happy. "I love you Sherlock." he said, feeling hot water spill over his eyes like boiling water in a pan., and he took a few deep breaths to steady himself, prevent from just breaking down and crying like he'd never stop.

He heard the door open and close behind him and somebody enter the room and stand beside him.

"Why did you come back?" John asked, trying to keep his voice steady "You left him." he turned back around to face Mycroft "You could have stopped this happening."

Mycroft gazed down at him, drumming his fingers on the handle of his umbrella "So could you Mr Watson."

It was true. They both could have stopped it.

"Why did you take so long to come back though?" John hissed, fighting a strong urge to jump up and strangle the man in front of him.

"John," it was the first time he had called him by his first name "I have never been a good brother to Sherlock, ever. And it's the biggest regret of my life." John couldn't help but feel his anger ebb away slightly in spite of himself.

"Where's Jim?"

"He went back to his flat."

"He went back!"

"Mr Watson, I have known James Moriarty for twenty years, and believe you me, he has never been the sentimental type."

"Not even to Sherlock?"

He shook his head "Not even to Sherlock."

"Are you gonna stay?" John asked.

He shook his head again "I have to go, I'll be back in a few hours though."

John gazed at the floor "I'll stay."

"Are you sure?" he asked, lifting a beige coat a slung it over his arm.

John nodded "I want to stay with him, at least until he wakes up."

Mycroft sighed and nodded, giving his approval "You can stay."

"Thank you."

Mycroft gave him a slight smile and turned to leave, closing the door behind him.

John turned back to Sherlock, once again feeling fresh moisture in his eyes. He leant over, cupping Sherlock's cheek with one hand and feverishly planting kisses all over his face. Along his jaw, up his cheeks, nose, eyelids and finally lips. "I love you." he whispered "please don't leave me."

He sat back in the chair, holding onto Sherlock's hand, still absentmindedly stroking the white knuckles.

**God my hand hurts now, imma go rest it **

**We can get to 100 reviews, we can, that would make me very happy. And new reviews always makes me smile. **


	12. Sorry Doesn't Help

**Hey guys. **

**AN: Last week my contact lenses decided to burn my eyes so I've give up on them and gone back to my glasses, so apologies for spelling mistakes because my brothers keep stealing them so I can't see anything, because they're evil like that.**

**Chapter 11**

John stirred slightly, stretching his arms and body out of this rather uncomfortable position which had made his body rather numb. Where was he? He brought his fists up to his eyes and rubbed his knuckles hard against them to try and wake himself up. What time was it?

Dropping one of the hands and raking the fingers on the other one along his scalp through his sandy hair he looked up and around, trying to remember where he was.

What was this place? And why was he here? Shouldn't he be at home with Mary marking Year 9 homework on reproduction right about now?

And then it hit him like a train going at full speed and all the memories of a few hours before all came flooding back like a river breaking it's banks, and he actually had to grip the arm of the chair he was sitting in for support. Oh…..

His eyes immediately flicked to Sherlock who was still asleep on his bed. His chest still steadily moving up and down as he breathed in and breathed out. His floppy jet black curls rather scuffled, his head slightly on it's side and his long thin limbs placed elegantly about his sleeping body. He looked…. Almost like a sleeping child. He just looked so innocent and naïve and delicate.

John leant over and once again pressed a kiss to his hollow cold cheek. Somewhere deep down he supposed, wished that maybe his presence would help wake Sherlock up. He knew it was impossible, but it didn't stop him from hoping that somehow it could work.

Something.

Anything.

He just wanted Sherlock to wake up.

Once again, like he had last night, he took Sherlock's hand in his own and squeezed it, hoping for maybe the tiniest comforting squeeze back, or maybe just a twitch of one of his fingers. He needed that right now. Something to cling onto. At this very moment it time he would have sold his soul to the devil just for Sherlock to wake up, he'd deal with the consequences later.

He should have never left Sherlock that morning. He should have seen this coming. He could have stopped this. He _should _have stopped this.

He lifted Sherlock's hand up, and kissed the palm.

He heard footsteps and quickly dropped Sherlock's hand, slumping back in the chair, and closing his eyes, though keeping them the tiniest bit open so as to view what was happening while faking sleep, breathing steadily in and out.

"YOU LET HIM STAY?!" he heard what most definitely was Jim's voices practically screaming, judging by the muffled sound about three metres away from the door to the room in which unconscious Sherlock and sleep-faking John resided.

"What choice did I have?" he heard Mycroft hiss sounding rather annoyed.

"You're a fucking idiot!" he heard Jim yell, sounding practically livid.

"Sherlock would want him there!" Mycroft hissed again, from his tone obviously feeling like he was fighting a long lost battle.

"Yeah?! Sherlock wants a lot of things that his big brother don't give him. Why is this so different Mycroft?!" Jim demanded "You couldn't deprive him of just _one _more thing?!"

"Jim-"

"Mycroft." Jim moaned in a mocking voice, the type primary school girls use when imitating each other in the school playground.

"Jim. Sherlock needs to be his own person….and if this….this man helps him do that then I will stick by him and support him."

"Yes, Mycroft, because being the loving big brother that you so blatantly are, you've supported Sherlock sooooo much since your mummy and daddy got stabbed to death." Jim scoffed.

"Jim-!"

"FUCKING STOP!" He screamed "That boy is _mine_! He's not yours! He's not…John's!" he spat the name with venom, like a vicious snake "He's _mine_. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. MINE!"

"He's not a toy Jim." he heard Mycroft almost mumble under Jim's rage.

"He's my toy."

"He's a person."

"Ah but you see Mykie, people are like toys. People break just as easily as toys do, they're just harder to fix." John could almost see the smile on Jim's face, just because of the way he said those twisted words.

Mycroft paused for a minute or so "I still blame you for what happened when he was…"

"Fucking hell Myke! He was ten! It was fucking five years ago!"

"He's still going to remember it Jim! He's never ever going to forget what happened to him then."

"Oh fucking hell! That. Was. Not. My. Fault!" Jim said, hissing so he almost spat every word.

"You were responsibly for him!"

"I didn't fucking know they were going to do _that_! How was I meant to know?!"

"Look Jim. Once he's out of this place he can go back to you."

_Is he insane? _John thought privately to himself, wanting to shake some sense into Sherlock's oblivious older brother.

What were they talking about though? Sherlock had never mentioned anything happening to him when he was ten. What could have happened to him? And why did Mycroft blame Jim for it? Jim was supposed to be Sherlock's guardian. To help him and guide him and stop him from doing anything like this. What had happened to Sherlock when he had been ten years old?

"Good. So he comes back to me?"

"If you let him see Mr Watson." John couldn't help but release a sharp breath.

"MYKE!"

"No Jim. I have a plan."

"Plan?" Jim asked rather incredulously "And pray tell Mykie, what ingenious plan is this?"

There was a silence "Walk with me, I'll tell you." Mycroft said rather hushed.

John heard Jim groan, but eventually heard footsteps and the sound of departing voices, moving further away from the room.

He sat up, opening his eyes and stretching his back out in a half-hearted effort to rid himself of the rather painful numbness that had crept up on his during the night. God he felt like an old man. He ran his fingertips through his hair again.

"John?"

John nearly had a heart attack "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat up slowly, untangling his long limbs and looking around the hospital room in incredibly confused look on his young face.

John leapt at him. Wrapping his arms so tightly around him in a rib-cracking hug, actually hearing all of the air leave Sherlock's chest from the force of such a violent show of affection. John clung onto him as tight as he could, running his hands over every single part of his body just to feel him alive and awake, running his hands up his long thin arms and legs, gracing over his chest and back, and tangling his fingers in his long black curls. Inhaling the wonderfully familiar scent. Leaving trails of shaky kisses all over his face, jaw, cheek, forehead.

He pulled away from Sherlock, out of the hug and grasped both sides of his face with his hands "Are you okay?" he demanded "Sherlock, are you ok?"

"I'm ok., I think." Sherlock answered, rather breathless, his beautiful blue-grey eyes slightly wider than usual in evident shock.

John quickly pecked his pale thin lips "What is wrong with you, you stupid, stupid boy?" he demanded again, actually shaking Sherlock slightly.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock mumbled.

"You're SORRY?!" John stared at him, slightly angry with him "That makes _everything_ better doesn't it?" he said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Sherlock's eyes lowered to the ground "I was happy." he mumbled, almost inaudibly.

"And that's why you swallowed a handful of drugs was it?"

"Yes."

John raised his hands up to stroke his fingers softly along Sherlock's pale white cheeks "Why did you do it Sherlock? Just why?" he asked, once again feeling his eyes prickle with tears.

"No John." Sherlock said, soundly like he too was going to cry "Don't do that." he stroked John's cheek with his bony hands, running his fingertips over the edge of John's eyelid and leaning up to kiss it "Don't cry, please."

John sniffed, holding back to wave of emotions that threatened to overpower him, and remained solid.

"I had you John." Sherlock explained "I didn't want to loose you, I didn't want to ruin everything in you life, you could be happy without me, I can't be happy without you."

"Don't you ever dare think that I would be happy without you Sherlock." John argued, shaking his head "Don't you ever think that, ever again."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock hung his head.

"No." John kissed his cheek and brought him back into a tight hug "It's okay." he said, almost like a father says to a toddler after they have a nightmare "It's okay."

It really wasn't ok. Both of them knew it. Everything was just a big mess of being not okay.

"Sherlock?" John asked, trying to tread as carefully as he could.

"Yeah?"

"What happened to you when you were ten?" he felt Sherlock's back muscles tense "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." he quickly added, holding him tighter, closer.

He felt Sherlock sigh "I do want to tell you, but I just don't want to talk about it." he bit his lip "I will tell you, not now though."

John heard the door open and footsteps entering the room behind him.

"You…" Sherlock whispered in shock.

"Hello Sherlock." It was Mycroft.

"You…you…._you_…" Sherlock stammered, quivering and shaking, seeming too angry to actually finish what he wanted to say "What…you….Mycroft….?" he spluttered.

John held on tightly to Sherlock's body, feeling the boy shake in anger, keeping his own body facing away from Mycroft.

"You… left." Sherlock eventually managed to get out.

"I know," the older Holmes brother accepted.

Sherlock began struggling against John's tight hold, trying to break free, a wild raging look in his eyes, not being able to tear his gaze away from his… his _traitor_ brother.

He wanted to scream at him. But his mouth lips wouldn't form the words, and his mind would conjure something bad enough that he could say. All he could do was shake a feebly fight against John's tight embrace.

"Shhh." John whispered, soothingly, gently stroking his back in comfort. "It's ok."

Oddly it helped, gradually with the help of John's comforting voice he stopped shaking and became still once again, his body hanging limply in his lover's arms. Sherlock wrapped both his arms around John again and kissed his cheek, still glaring at his…brother.

"Mr Watson, can I speak to you for a moment?" The older Holmes interjected.

Sherlock by instant response, held even tighter onto John, as if telling him not to go, to stay right there with him.

"I'll come back." John reassured him, trying to pull away, Sherlock remaining as stubborn as ever "I promise. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't nod or shake his head either, but he loosened his grip on John, enough for John to freely an without much effort, remove himself from Sherlock's arms. He kissed him, quickly and stood up, following Mycroft out the door.

"I know you were listening to what I was saying to James earlier." Mycroft hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Where is Jim?" John asked, not knowing if he wanted to know the answer.

"He went home again. But that's not what I want to talk to you about."

"What do you want to talk to me about then?"

Mycroft sighed, his eyes, so similar in shape to Sherlock's, flicked up and down John's body again, studying him like Sherlock did. They were so similar, and yet so different it was unbelievable. "John…will you do me a favour?" he asked.

John's eyebrows mashed together in confusion "Do _you _a favour?"

"Well Sherlock really." Mycroft added.

"What do you want me to do?" John asked, slightly suspicious.

"I want you to look after him."

"I can do that." John agreed.

"Can you?"

"Mr Holmes," John paused "I love you brother, I want to help him."

"Can you fix him though?" Mycroft asked.

Jim's words from earlier rang in Johns' ears _Ah but you see Mykie, people are like toys. People break just as easily as toys do, they're just harder to fix._

John nodded his head slowly "I can do that."

"I will give you six months." Mycroft said, holding out his hand for John to shake in agreement.

John eyed his lover's brother's hand for a moment or two before taking it. "Six months." he agreed.

"And if you don't, I will report your relationship with my brother to the police, is that understood?"

John nodded "Yes sir."

He had six months.

Six months to fix Sherlock.

**I must now go retrieve my glasses, I think my little brother hid them somewhere in one of our box forts. Be thankful you don't have seven bothers like me. **

**Kinda short I know, but I hope you like it **

**Reviews make me very happy, so please review and tell me what you think. **


	13. In The Future When All's Well

**To Rhi: I am English, I was born in Sweden but I've lived in England since I was 3. I'm not a teacher I'm 14 so I'd have to be like a genius if I was. And again I'm 14, so I'm still discovering my own sexuality, I consider myself to be a lesbian though at the moment (with the exception of a few male celebrities), and I do have a girlfriend. So yeah, thank you, I'm glad you like this, and yes, The Smiths are amazing.**

**Chapter 12**

"Mary!" John called, pulling the sleeves of his coat onto his arms.

"Yeah?" she poked her head around the kitchen door, her long hair flowing over her shoulders.

"I'm going out to see Harry."

"Oh." she said looking rather disappointed "Can I come with you?"

Harry and Mary had always been rather close. In fact it was Harry who had introduced him and Mary in the first place. Although John knew the reason for the two being so close was that Harry had always had a huge crush on Mary, and she had been furious with him when Mary had agreed to go on a date with her little brother.

"I thought I'd just go to see her on my own today, and anyway you said you were going to the doctors later today anyway?"

"Oh yeah." a rush of realisation flash over her face "Well you have fun with Harry, when will you be back?"

John shrugged "Don't know, not too late though."

"Ok." she smiled fairly unenthusiastically and softly kissed his cheek, causing a tiny hardly noticeable shiver run down his spine.

"I'll see you soon then." he smiled, hiding his moment of weakness.

She smiled, turning back into the kitchen, waving her hand back at him "I love you."

"You too. Bye."

Mary had got so bored of their car and it now sat rather sad looking in their parking space. It wasn't really that important. Not many people living in London have a car anyway, you can get by on the busses, the tube and the train. It wasn't hard, transport in London was easy if you knew how.

John stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, it was getting cold already, it was only late October, he could see little paper skeletons and pumpkins in the windows of houses as he walked past, even real pumpkins sitting on the window sills, their morbid grotesque faces smiling at him as he walked past. He shivered from genuine cold, it was definitely going to be a cold winter.

He had planned with Mycroft to see Sherlock today. He was going to take him out of the city for the day, that would be good for him. He was genuinely going to see Harry though, he was taking Sherlock with him, at least that was the plan anyway. When Harry had been struggling to overcome her alcoholism her therapist had suggested getting out of the city for a while, she had gone on what was supposed to be a three month visit to a small town not too far from London, she had eventually bought a house there with her landlords daughter Clara and had lived there with her ever since. Maybe that's what Sherlock needed, a fresh start somewhere else. But Jim had to keep Sherlock, those were the legal rights given to him and nobody else when Sherlock's parents had died. If John had a choice he'd have taken Sherlock away, out of Baker Estate and far, far away from Jim.

He got the bus from the bus stop that was stood not too far away from his and Mary's house. The bus took him to about a quarter of a mile away from the entrance to Baker Estate, and it didn't take that long to walk, in fact he could have walked the whole journey in about 45 minutes as it was only about two and a half miles from his house.

He noticed how scarce the Halloween decorations became to closer he got to Baker Estate, and there were few if none on the estate it's self.

He didn't even need to go up to Sherlock's flat door, because Sherlock must have seen him in his widow and came rushing down to greet him, his long hair blowing in the wind and his black trench coat billowing out at his sides he flung himself into John's arms.

John couldn't help but laugh as he held Sherlock in a tight hug "Hello." he said, planting a small kiss on the edge of Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock had been discharged from hospital two days after John had been called, and had been confined to his flat for the last few days.

"How's hibernation been?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smiled, not a fake or humourless smile, but a real proper wide happy smile that seemed to reignite him and bring a flash of youth across his young face "Boring." he grinned up at John "Anyway, where are we going today?"

"We're going to see my sister."

"Harry?"

"Yeah I thought it would be nice, and I haven't seen her in ages. Is that okay with you?"

He nodded "Yeah, that's good." he smiled, taking John's hand with one of his, and rather clumsily buttoning up his coat with the other.

John leaned over a kissed his cheek again, and they began to walk.

They needed to get two busses, before getting a tube and eventually a train. It was about 9:00 now so hopefully they'd get to Harry's around lunch time.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand once again.

…

Harry Watson sat on her living room sofa, chewing a piece of what was supposed to be strawberry bubble gum which had lost it's flavour about forty-five minutes ago and now had both the consistency and taste of plastic.

Clara was at work, and Harry herself had taken the day off for what she had said to her boss 'personal reasons'.

Harry had been sober for just over two years now, and smoke free for nearly six months. But right now all she wanted was one or the other, both would be just perfect. She could taste the nicotine in her mouth already and she ran her fingers through her short cropped hair and tried to think about something else other than alcohol and nicotine. She sighed, breathing in deeply in an effort to calm herself down. She thought about all the people who cared about her who's lives she couldn't ruin…again. She didn't want to be like that damnit! She took a deep sigh, gulping in the air around her. Trying hard to avoid thinking about needles and cigarettes or alcohol. Or anything. She just wanted to move on with her life.

She heard the knock on the door and practically ran to open it.

She hadn't seen John for nearly a year, all communication had been over the phone or through text and she couldn't help but leap at him and hug him the moment she saw his face. "Johnny!"

"Oh don't call me that." John smiled, looking rather embarrassed.

"Hey don't do that." she said, pinching both of his progressively reddening cheeks. That was when she noticed the other person.

The boy stood a step or two back from John, and he seemed to be standing as if John was some form of protective shield, long white fingers twined with her brothers, his black curly hair slightly windswept, looking much too small for the giant trench coat he was wearing. And he seemed to be shivering too.

"Who's that?" she hissed to her brother, but she knew the boy could hear.

"That's the person I said I was bringing." John explained.

"You didn't say he was a twelve year old boy." she whispered.

John gave her a rather annoyed look "He's fifteen Harry." oh what did it matter? All teenagers looked the same to Harry.

The boy's very blue eyes flicked to John, still not saying anything, he tugged his hand.

John turned, and to Harry's utter shock pulled the boy into a one armed hug, and she stood there rather awkwardly while her brother held this very odd black haired blue eyed fifteen year old boy in his arms.

John eventually released the boy, who stepped forward and offered his hand to Harry "Hello Miss Watson, my name is Sherlock Holmes." he a rather confident voice.

She stared at him, utterly awestruck, not quite sure what she should do "Err…" she glanced at John for help who just rolled his eyes and gestured with his head to Sherlock "Hello Sherlock." she took his hand and shook it.

He seemed quite pleased that she had done so because he smiled rather warmly at her, instantly making her feel rather calmer.

"Where's Clara?" John asked, breaking the silence.

"Clara's at work, she'll be coming home around three, are you staying until then?"

"Yeah sure."

"Come in, come in." she shifted to the side ushering them both in.

Sherlock stepped inside the little house, looking around.

He could vaguely remember living in a house like this one once. It was a reasonable sized house. Two bedroom, red brick, semi-detached house with a small garden. He could remember getting very muddy in a garden very similar to this one. It wasn't a country house, but it wasn't a city house either. The walls were painted light pastel colours, with soft light fabric sofas. He reached out to touch it, running his fingers along the fabric. It felt like something he could only vaguely remember, like from a very old memory, or a very old barley remembered dream, or a memory of a dream. He felt hot moisture prick up in his eyes and he glanced back to John. He swivelled round and slowly sat down onto the sofa, tucking his legs up under his chin and wrapping his arms around them, and closing his eyes resting his chin on his knees.

"Who is he?" Harry hissed at John.

"He's Sherlock Holmes."

She gave him a look "Oh really?" she asked sarcastically "I mean who is he to you?"

"He's a friend."

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"No. Come on Johnny, tell me the truth."

The truth. Such a heartbreaking and practically irrelevant subject. "He's… he's just got a lot going on and I'm looking after him." John tried to explain.

Harry's eyebrows crept higher up her forehead "Looking after him? Seriously John, who is he? Tell your old and decrepit sister the truth. Please."

"Harry… he's one of my students. He's got some serious issues. He just needs my help. Honestly."

"That's all?" she asked, looking slightly disbelieving.

"That's all." he lied. John hated lying to Harry. True they'd never seen eye-to-eye on everything. But she was his sister, and there was a time when he had told her everything. A long, long time ago, before their mum had died, before everything went wrong for them and Harry turned into something that even John couldn't handle. They had both been so lost when mum had died. But they'd had each other, and dad. Who did Sherlock have when his parents had died? Mycroft had left him alone with nothing and nobody to care properly for him

"Why'd you bring him here?" she asked, accepting but not quite believing his story.

"I thought it would be good if I could get him out the city for a day." this was the truth.

"How long have to been playing Good Samaritan then John Watson?" Harry asked, he eyebrows still raised, her tone slightly sarcastic.

"Oh fuck off….you're…." he struggled to find an insult to throw at her "You're going to be thirty in two years."

She glared at him "Thanks for that John."

He immediately felt guilty "I'm sorry Harry."

"Hey, it's okay." he smiled slightly, lifting her hand and running her fingers through the sides of his hair.

"I do love you really."

She grinned "Oh I know, I mean who couldn't love me?"

He elbowed her in the ribs and she flinched.

"Ouch! So you and him going out of a walk soon or something?"

"Something like that."

"Okay." she sighed, eyeing him up and down "So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You and Mary, how's that?"

"Oh erm…it's fine." he answered, immediately feeling panicky.

She raised her eyebrows slightly "Are you lying to me John Watson?"

"No." he snapped.

She actually grinned "Oh come on John. Last time I saw you, you wouldn't shut the fuck up about that girl, what happened?"

"Nothing." he mumbled.

"Do you still lover her?"

He sighed "Yeah." That was the problem.

If there was one thing Harry Watson was good at, it was knowing if her little brother was lying to her. And he so blatantly was. She hated when he lied to her. He'd done it so much in those months after their mum had died. They had lied so much to each other and other people in that time that the truth had almost become something that didn't even properly exist anymore. It had taken time for both of them to even stop telling lies, and they'd promised each other that they'd never lie, to each other again at least. She knew he was though. He did this funny thing with his fingers when he was lying, and his eyes always shifted a little in a certain direction. She did know her brother very well indeed.

"So what about him?" she asked quieter than before, leaning her head closer to John's.

John's eyes narrowed slightly "What about him?"

"Sherlock. What does he have to do with all of this?"

"Nothing." John lied, mumbling slightly again "He's just Sherlock."

There was something he wasn't telling her. She knew it, she just knew it. "Ok." she smiled and opened her arms for a hug, which he obliged too almost instantly "How are you then?"

John shrugged "I'm okay."

"That's good I guess." she smiled.

"How about you? How are you doing?"

"Me? Oh I'm right as rain."

"Seriously Harry?"

"_Seriously _John."

"How are you doing with… you know what I mean?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Really John."

John bit his lip slightly, not quite sure what to say.

"Is Clara okay?"

"Clara? Yeah Clara's good. Clara's amazing, as per usual." Harry smiled slightly, fond thoughts of Clara flooding back into her mind.

"Sherlock!" John called into the living room "We're going out for a walk!"

Sherlock poked his head around the living room door.

"You are?" Harry asked.

"Aren't you coming?" John asked his sister looking slightly disappointed.

Harry cuddled to her long soft jumper sleeves "Nah I'm ok, you two go."

"Oh, are you sure?"

She smiled "You. Go on, just be back soon okay?"

John nodded, and held out his hand for Sherlock who grasped it in both of his "We'll be back soon." John reassured her.

Harry reached over and quickly gave her brother a one armed hug and even gave Sherlock a small smile.

John and Sherlock opened and closed the door, venturing out into the cold October air.

"So what do you think of Harry?" John asked, swinging his and Sherlock's hands as they walked back down his sister's drive.

"She seems nice, she reminds me of you a little."

"Was it the hair?"

Sherlock nodded "And the face, and you both walk the same way too."

John didn't question him. "Was that your first time on a train?" he asked quizzically.

"First time in a long time."

"Hey." John stopped him, lifting his other hand and running it along the boy's smooth beautiful cheek "Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded "I'm okay."

John's eyebrows arched "Sherlock, you know I don't like it when you lie to me. What's wrong?"

Sherlock sighed and averted his eyes from John. _How had he known? _"It's just…that house…"

"Hey come here." John pulled him into a floppy one-armed hug. "I'm here, you tell me whenever something happens, yeah?"

"Yeah." Sherlock nodded his head in agreement "I will."

"Come this way." John said, pulling Sherlock's hand along with him in another direction, down by the side of Harry's house.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked, giggling slightly.

"Shhh. This way." John pulled him further down the side, down to a different street and along that one too.

"John?" Sherlock hissed.

John didn't answer, pulling his young lover down that street and finally another one

Harry lived on the outskirts of a small town, towards the outside of the town not far from where Harry's house was John could remember there being at least a square mile of grass meadows with trees scattered about. He could clearly remember coming here with Harry and Clara and Mary on sunny afternoons not too long ago. Now he couldn't think of bringing Mary here again, just Sherlock.

A clump of trees surrounded the houses closest to them, and he yanked Sherlock through into the leaves.

They were almost nose to nose, standing close together facing each other, surrounded by the leaves and branches from the trees, most sunlight blocked out.

"Sir?" Sherlock whispered, almost no noise escaping his mouth.

"Yeah?"

"Is this wrong sir?" he asked, taking John's other hand and kissing each palm, his crystal eyes staring directly into John's and hardly blinking at all.

"It seems natural to me." John whispered back, pulling one of his hands out of Sherlock's slack grip and running two of his fingers along his cheek.

"Me too." Sherlock paused before releasing John's hands and wrapping his long thin arms around his teacher's neck and standing on his tiptoes to give him a quick kiss.

John's arms quickly jumped up to Sherlock's body, wrapping them firmly around his student, squeezing him into a tight embrace, his tongue darting into the boy's mouth, firmly closing his eyes.

Sherlock arms immediately tightened around John.

John eventually pulled away, still with his arms around his student "Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

Sherlock nodded.

"What happened to your parents?"

Sherlock released him, instead twining their fingers together and leant against one of the trees "It's a long story."

"I've got a lot of time."

Sherlock glanced at him. And in that moment he really looked like a scared little boy. A boy who was lost and betrayed, who had been abandoned by everyone who he had.

"Hey." John reached up with his other hand and softly ran his fingers along Sherlock's cheek "You can tell me, I'm not going to tell anyone, I promise."

Sherlock sucked slightly on his bottom lip, evidentially contemplating what to say "You know some of it already."

John didn't say anything, but nodded.

Sherlock glanced at him and sighed, his eyes flicking away for a moment or two "You really want to know?"

"I want to know how bad it is for you, I wouldn't ask you to just tell me for no reason."

"My father died first, they stabbed him right here," he reached over a prodded his middle and forefinger to just to the right of the centre of John's neck "And then to his chest…four times." he lowered his hand and placed it in four different places in the upper half of John's chest "here, here, here, and here." he paused for a second "My mother was trying to stop them and protect me at the same time, and they shot her, right here." he pointed to a sport in the left region of his abdominal area "And she said to me, right before she died, in the very last seconds she grabbed me like this," he fastened one of his hands around the front of John's shirt "and she told me to run. So I did." he took a deep rasping breath, inhaling the cold Autumn air around him, his hands and fingers shaking and his whole body trembling uncontrollably.

John was speechless. There was nothing he could say. Nothing. He extended his arm to Sherlock, and wrapping it around the shaking boy and held him close to his chest, every few seconds planting another kiss on his cheek. "Did they find the people that did it?"

Sherlock shook his head "No." he whispered shakily.

"Do you have any idea on who it could have been?"

"No, and that's the worst thing." Sherlock pulled out of John's embrace, almost throwing his arms up in the air in angry and grief "They were good people, they never did anything wrong, they were prefect, they never hurt anyone, they didn't have any enemies, they were kind and they were good people. And yet somebody killed them. And I don't understand why. And I don't know who it was, or why they did it, but they did, what did my parents ever do to deserve anything like that, John?"

"I don't know Sherlock."

Sherlock seemed to break, his whole body trembling "John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Am I going to die?"

"No. Sherlock no." John quickly pulled Sherlock back into a tight embrace "You're going to be okay, I will help you, okay? Sherlock," he released him for a second, placing both hands on each of Sherlock's hollow cheeks "I swear, I will always, _always,_ help you. No matter what's happening to you, you tell me and I promise I will be there for you, and I would do absolutely anything. Okay?"

"I love you." Sherlock just said simply.

"And I love you. So much. More than anything else in the world."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then leant up and pressed his soft lips to John's, and twining his fingers into John's sandy hair.

…

John almost felt like he could float. He was so happy. His day with Sherlock had probably been one of the best of his life. In fact, everyday with Sherlock's was the best of his life.

He had already dropped Sherlock back at Baker Estate, none of Sherlock's guardians had been there which had been rather good as he didn't want to run into Jim again, not after he had nearly strangled him at the hospital.

Mary was in, he could tell from the smell or cooking coming from behind the door. He slowly approached the door. He was back rather later than he had anticipated him to be, was she going to be angry with him? Well maybe if she was it would give him an excuse for an argument so he could storm out and go and visit Sherlock that night.

He twisted the key in the lock, opened the door an entered "Mary?" he called.

She popped her head around the door "Hello John." and she smiled at him. So she wasn't angry. Which he wasn't surer was good or not.

"Hi." he leant down and kissed her cheek "How are you?"

"I'm good." she beamed at him. Why was she so happy to see him? She wasn't usually like this? Usually she was tired and sometimes easily irritable towards the end of the day "Oh John, you arrived just in time I've just finished making dinner."

"Oh ok."

She had laid the table too. What was going on?

He sat down and she brought the two hot plates of food over and placed them down, sitting down at the table next to him.

"John." she took his hand.

"Yeah?"

"I have something to tell you."

This couldn't be good "Yeah…?"

"I'm three weeks late." she said, looking expectantly at him.

He stared at her, his brow furrowed and his mind working to try and figure out what she was trying to tell him "Err…late for what?"

She rolled her eyes at him looking exasperated and muttered something that sounded a lot like "Men." then she turned back to him, the smile back on her face "That's why I went to the doctors today."

He still stared at her, confused.

"Oh come on John. You know what I'm talking about, you were going to be a bloody doctor."

"Errr…."

"John, I pregnant."

For a long moment he stared at her "Huh?"

"John I'm going to have our baby."

Baby? _Our_ baby? His and Mary's baby?

"But….But…." he spluttered "But we always…"

"Condoms aren't always one hundred percent affective John." she smiled again "Anyway, aren't you happy? We're going to have a baby."

He faked a smile "Of course I'm happy." he lied.

She beamed at him again "I love you." she said, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him.

"Love you too." he answered, fairly unenthusiastically.

All the happiness and joy of seeing Sherlock was gone. Now there was just fear at what Sherlock would say, and a baby to worry about.

**I have tumblr now, actually I've had it for a while and never got round to mentioning it, if you want to follow me, it is: highlyfunctioningmikyla**


	14. Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

**Chapter 13**

The door of 221b opened for John to be greeted by Sherlock.

"What are you doing right now?" John asked, cutting Sherlock off before he could greet him, or even say anything.

"Errr... Physics homework." Sherlock answered, his face a picture of confusion.

"Oh... well I can come back later when you've finished." He turned.

"No." Sherlock grabbed his arm in a tight grasp "You can come in now, and I can finish it later, yeah?"

"Ok." John smiled at him and quickly engulfed him in a greeting hug.

Sherlock held on nuzzling his head into John's shoulder and rocking slightly from side to side.

"Shirley!" came a man's voice from inside the flat. It wasn't Jim, this man sounded too British to be Jim judging by his accent "close the fucking door!"

Sherlock jumped at the sound of the man's voice, and glancing back into the flat he took John's hand and pulled him inside.

It was unusually dark inside the flat, for a moment or two John's eyes had to adjust to the lack of light. There were two other people in the room aside from Sherlock and himself. He'd already met one of them, Irene, looking at her again she looked like she _could _have been pretty, beautiful even, but she was too thin, and he bare legs were coated in yellow bruising, her eyes, like Sherlock's, were sunken, and she looked tired with dark circles around her eyes. The other was someone John's hadn't met before. A tall man, reasonably well built with floppy auburn hair that hung around his stubbly face. His fingersgently scratching his chin as he observed John through almost white, puzzled, slightly bloodshot eyes.

"That's Seb." Sherlock hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

So this was Seb. John couldn't help but notice how much more healthy and higher maintained Jim looked in comparison to his two lovers. They both looked ill almost, and Jim didn't. Jim looked fine.

Without hesitating too much, Sherlock pulled John into his room which was slightly lighter that the previous one and was just as cluttered and messy as john remembered it, the violin perched on the shelf and the skull on the bed next to Sherlock's physics book and biro pen, his school bag on the floor propped up against the wall.

"That's Seb then?" John asked, taking off his coat and placing it on the bed next to Sherlock's physics.

"Yeah." Sherlock sighed "Seb's okay, he's probably my favourite out of all of them."

"Okay." John sat down on Sherlock's bed, the springs creaking under his weight "So how are you?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock sat down next to him.

John raised his eyebrows "Are you?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment or two before shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"Thought so. Come here." John extended his arms and Sherlock responded quickly by wrapping both of his arms around John's neck and holding on, almost as if for his life, like how a toddler would cling to it's mother when it was hurt or upset.

"That's why I came." John added, pulling out of the embrace and holding Sherlock at arms length "I want to teach you something."

"Well you are my teacher." Sherlock added, a rather cheeky smile creeping over his young face.

John glared at him "Shut up and don't remind me of that."

Sherlock actually sniggered "Oh you were asking for it. And it is true."

"No I wasn't, and I'm trying to be serious here."

Sherlock wiped the smile off his face as quickly as it had appeared, but he still had the childish glint in his eyes which John didn't see very often, it was nice to see it, better that than the sorrow that was usually there. He could almost feel himself glow with pride at the fact that he, John, had helped in momentarily replacing the sorrow.

"Have you heard of something called the Butterfly Project?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking puzzled "No."

"Right, okay, I'll tell you. First you need to show me your arm."

Sherlock instantly tensed, his right hand immediately darting to his left arm, wrapping his long fingers around it, his whole body shaking slightly "Why do you need to see?" he asked, sounding defensive, most traces of emotion gone from his voice.

"Because that's what they butterfly project is all about, to help." John tried to explain.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, looking wary and suspicious.

"You don't like people looking at your arm do you?"

Sherlock shook his head rather stiffly, still looking suspicious.

"Not even me?"

Sherlock shook his head more vigorously "Especially not you." He mumbled, his lips barely moving.

"Why not?" John reached out, placing his hand over Sherlock's right which was still firmly clenched around his left arm.

"I just don't like people seeing them." Sherlock murmured, his voice quiter than before.

"Sherlock, please."

Sherlock stared up at him, his eyes sorrowful, almost guilty looking. And slowly, even so slowly, his grip on hos amrs loosened.

John took hold of the end of Sherlock's sleeve, and gently, steadily, edged it up Sherlock's thin arm. Most of the cuts were red and looked flaky, the raw skin around the cuts and over previous scars looked painful and red, almost swollen. They were scratch marks, scratch marks from human nails that had been dragged across the white skin of Sherlock's arm over and over again, obviously recently, no less than a couple of hours ago, and it seemed it had been done before, recently before that.

John looked up at Sherlock who was wearing an ashamed look on his face.

"I tried." Sherlock interjected "I really, really did. I swear I did."

"Sherlock, Sherlock, shhhh." He pressed his index finger to Sherlock's lips "I know it's going to be hard for you, I know that telling someone like you to just stop is stupid because it's hard for them, am I right?" he lifted his finger off Sherlock's lips and leaning forward gave him a small peck on the lips.

Sherlock didn't say anything, just gazed intently at John.

John reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out a blue felt tip pen "Butterfly project does help some people, hopefully it might help you."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"it's a thing I learnt from med school. The idea is that you draw butterflies over the places you would normally hurt yourself, and you name the butterflies after the people who are most important to you, the people you love and care about."

"Right."

"And so it's supposed to be that if you do hurt yourself then the butterfly dies and so the person you named it after..."

"gets hurt because of you." Sherlock finished for him.

"yeah, exactly. Do you think you could try it?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded.

"Thank you." John leant over and kissed him again, handing him the felt tip pen as he did. "Here I'll show you, give me your arm."

Sherlock hesitantly obeyed him, placing his thin raw arm into John's hands.

John examined the arm. It looked painful; he was almost scared to touch it in case he made it sting or hurt anymore than it obviously did already. As gently as he could, almost without touching it, he ran the tips of his fingers over some of the more prominent slashes, none of them were open wounds, more peeling scabs in the process of becoming scars, some of them at, in fact several of them looked like they had bled an unbelievably amount. "here." He gently poked over a cluster of several white scars.

Sherlock glanced at him "Will it work?"

"It might, hopefully it will, but you have to make it work."

Sherlock sighed and twiddling the pen in his fingers, tilting his head to the side to view the scars from a different angle, and shifting his hand he gently pressed the tip of the pen to his skin which almost made his arm tingle, he drew the first butterfly. It was the roughest most cartoon-like drawing he'd probably even done in his whole life, but he smiled at it, it looked just so harmless and beautiful resting gently over the hideous scars that covered his wrists.

John leant over and kissed his cheek "thank you."

Sherlock looked back up at him "Thank you?"

"Yeah. You do need to name it though."

"Name it?"

"Name it after someone you love, who do you love?"

"I love you." Sherlock stated simply.

"I love you too." John smiled, kissing Sherlock's cheek again.

Sherlock took his pen back to the butterfly, and wrote in his thin slanting scrawl _'John' _next to it.

John sat round, wrapping both of his arms around Sherlock from behind and nuzzling his head into the crook of the boy's neck. Sherlock reached up with his hand, softly running and stroking his fingers along John's cheek.

"You have a soft face." He mused.

"Do I now?" John asked, chuckling "I think you're the first person even to tell me that."

"It's true." Sherlock added rather stubbornly.

"Well thank you. I like your hair." John said, ruffling Sherlock's long glossy jet black curls with his hand.

Sherlock shook his head vigorously to escape John's doting, but he seemed amused by it, and quickly ruffling his curls he placed his head on john's shoulder and returned the embrace "Well I think that you're beautiful." He retorted.

"Beautiful?"

He nodded rather defiantly, a look of satisfaction and amusement on his face.

"You're beautiful." A small smile broke over John's face, and he ruffled Sherlock's curls again.

"Hey!" Sherlock retorted, flapping his hands around his head as if trying to repel a swarm of insects "What is your thing with my hair?"

"I like your hair." John laughed, leaning over and pressing a kiss you Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock quickly jumped up onto his knees so he was taller than John, both his arms tight around his teacher's shoulders , closing as much space between them as he could as quickly as he could, feeling his heart rate quicken and pound like a tiny train in his chest, his breath hitched as he ran the rim of his tongue along his older lovers bottom lip.

John shifted, kneeling on the bed so Sherlock was still taller than him, and snaked both of his arms around his thin body, his fingers tapping along his spine.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, pulling his head away, breaking the kiss for a second.

"Mmmmh?"

"We could leave you know." He said, planting single kiss on his lover's lips between each individual word.

John softly jerked his head away and twisted to the side, taking Sherlock by surprise.

"John?"

John glanced up to Sherlock, he looked hurt, the boyish playful wildness had dimmed and his expression had become melancholic "You know we can't do that."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked sounding almost playful, lifting one of his hands off Johns; shoulder and twining their fingers together and tilting his head to the side "We could juts go, run away as far as we could go, anywhere we wanted. And we could stay in all day and talk about crap, and we wouldn't care about anything." He smiled "And you could draw as many butterflies on my arms as you liked."

John could feel hot wet tears prickle in his eyes. It sounded so perfect. He'd thought about running away with Sherlock a thousand times over, and go somewhere –anywhere- where they could be safe and happy. Away from everyone, where nobody could tell them it was wrong, somewhere where he could hold Sherlock's hand in public, and kiss him wherever and whenever he liked and not have to hide. But it couldn't happen.

"You have to stay here with Jim, I have to stay too."

Sherlock's tiny smile slid off his face and he twisted his whole body, sitting back down on the bed and throwing his head back onto the blankets, his curls cascading up around his cheeks. "I hate this." He said bitterly glaring at the damp infested ceiling, a look of defiant malice on his young face.

John sighed, shifting and lying down on the bed next to Sherlock "What do you hate?"

"I hate that we don't have a place, or a time or anything. I mean, you're my teacher-" they both simultaneously flinched at the word- "Stuff like this just doesn't happen to most people. And nobody could even understand it." He turned to look at John, and his cold hard glare softened and seemed to melt.

"i know." John replied "It isn't fair." He reached down and grasped Sherlock's hand, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's and squeezing it lightly "I love you though."

"We could still go." Sherlock suggested hesitantly.

"Where? And how?"

"Somewhere. Anywhere, I wouldn't care."

"Mary's pregnant." John mumbled, closing his eyes. He deserved for Sherlock to scream and shout at him. Hit, shove, insult, make him feel like shit. That's what he deserved, and he knew he deserved that and much, much worse.

But Sherlock didn't do any of that. He fell silent, turning back to glare at the wall. And if looks could burn, that ceiling and every ceiling and floor above it, even the gloomy November sky would be engulfed with the wildest brightest flames in mere milliseconds.

"Sherlock?" but he started resolutely upwards.

"Since when do you want kids?" Sherlock eventually asked, after several minutes that seemed to drag on for several years each, and his voice was cold as ice.

"I don't." John admitted truthfully "I hadn't even thought about it."

Sherlock tilted his head back to face John "Well next time, put something over it, yeah?" he said, his voice minimally less cold.

John couldn't help a small smile play on his lips "I'd have kids with you, you know."

"How long have you known me again?" Sherlock asked, smiling himself now.

"I'm serious Sherlock."

"Yeah, I know you are." He lowered his gaze "Well congratulations I guess, i would have bought some pink and blue balloons if I'd known."

"Please don't make me think balloons, or anything like that, please."

"Sure." He leant over and pressed a kiss to his lips again.

John reached over and embraced his student, pulling him into an almost bone crushing hug, wrapping both his arms as tightly around him as he could and squeezing tightly.

"I love you." Sherlock said, his voice muffled by John's shoulder.

"I love you more." John argued.

"No you don't."

"I do." John twisted his head and kissed him again, silencing him before he could argue back. Twisting his body round to face him, lifting his hand to stroke his soft cheek as he did, and tightening his rather awkwardly positioned embrace.

Sherlock's tongue rather roughly ran itself along John's lower lip, he grasped the back of John's head, his fingers twisting and twining with John's sand hair, making the kiss more forceful. John reached up with both his hands, almost growling as he meshed their moths together, tangling his hands into Sherlock's messy tangle of curls and rolling on top of him, bringing his legs up around the boy's waist, exploring his mouth with his tongue.

John pulled away and smiled at Sherlock, his back curls forced up around his white cheeks, his icy eyes wide and his mouth open in slight speechlessness.

"I love you more." He smiled again, and nestling his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck and wrapping his arms tighter around him.

**I know its kinda short for the disgustingly long time it took me to write. **

**Sorry for the delay. Again... **

**Also Butterfly Project is good for anyone who does self harm, I strongly recommend it if you are trying to stop. **

**Please review and tell me what you think **


	15. Late Night, Baker Street

**Hi guys **

**It was my birthday a few weeks ago, I am no longer 14, I'm 15 now, half way to 30, yeah. **

**Sorry this chapter took so long...again. I really have no excuse other than that it just took so goddamn long to write. **

**Let us not dilly dally, no long AN today, on with the chapter**

**WARNING: lots of angst, threat and violence in this chapter**

**Enjoy**

**Love Micky xxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Sherlock! Where the fuck are you?!"

Sherlock poked his head around his bedroom door "Here!"

Jim didn't look up when his godson spoke, he stood by the wall in the jeans and t'shirt, a look of slight confused amusement at what even he seemed to be thinking about, his black hair stuck out at odd angles and his eyes were large and wide in their sockets, his mouth open as if in silent laughter.

"Jim?"

He twisted his head round and stared at his godson, a look of fondness crossed his face "Come here Shirley." He extended his hand and wiggled his fingers.

Sherlock cautiously approached him, not saying anything.

"Speak." Jim ordered, lightly slapping across Sherlock's face.

"Erm..." Sherlock thought back to the maths homework he had just finished "Radius is half the diameter, pi is 3.14 approximately."

Jim laughed, and raising both of his hands to Sherlock's cheeks "Such a clever boy." He tilted his head from side to side "Pretty boy. You look just like your mummy you know."

Sherlock remained silent, feeling more and more vulnerable by the second.

"But you got daddy's eyes, don't you?" Jim added, poking Sherlock's closed eyelids.

"Are you high?" Sherlock asked.

"High. Fly. Sky. Lucy – Jimmy in the sky with diamonds."

Sherlock stared at him, his eyebrows raised "Yes then?"

Jim laughed, throwing his head back and laughing in an almost uncontrollable manor.

"Yes then." Sherlock confirmed to himself "What did you?"

Jim lowered his head, still with a vacant fond smile on his face, and rasising his index finger to his left nostril he grinned.

"Do you have any left?" Sherlock asked rather timidly.

Jim frowned "Even if I did I wouldn't give you any, not after that little stunt you pulled."

"You gave me those pills." Sherlock argued.

"Not so you'd fucking overdose on them and end up in hospital Shirley!" he snapped sharply, smacking his hand across Sherlock's cheek, Sherlock flinched away, shielding his face with his hands "Bad boy Sherlock." Jim said as if addressing a dog.

"I already said sorry." Sherlock added, still shielding his face.

But Jim spotted something. His fond haze of happiness had vanished and he stared at Sherlock's arm, a look of utter resentment and contempt on his face, his eyes burning in apparent rage "What is that?!" he demanded pointing at Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock looked. Butterfly John was resting centimetres below his left wrist in blue ink.

"Nothing." He mumbled, lowering his arms and pulling the sleeve of his blue long-sleeved shirt down.

Jim snatched out, fastening his fingers tightly around Sherlock's wrist, and ignoring Sherlock's frantic attempts to escape his grasp he wrenched the top of Sherlock's sleeve down his arm exposing Butterfly John. "What is this?!" he spat, dragging Sherlock's arm upwards and digging his sharp nails deep into Sherlock's white flesh.

"Ow!" Sherlock flinched "Jim, get off!"

"What is it?!" Jim demanded, shaking the arm and digging his nails in harder.

"It's just something I learnt!" Sherlock pretested, attempting to prize his wrist from Jim's vice like hold.

"From _him_?" Jim demanded, shouting now.

"So what if it was?!" Sherlock yelled back

Jim appeared to snap. Still keeping a firm grip on Sherlock's left wrist, his other hand fastened itself firmly around Sherlock's neck, and slammed them both into the wall.

Sherlock cried out, struggling and squirming to escape his godfather, his free man attempting to prize Jim's fingers away from his neck.

"Was it him?" Jim hissed, holding their faces so close Sherlock felt specklets of spit expel Jim's frothing mouth "WAS IT?!" his hand quickly made its way to Sherlock's long hair, and bashing the back of the boy's head into the wall.

Sherlock shook his head frantically, and feeling several hairs part company with his scalp he escaped Jim's grasp. Jim caught him by the scruff of his neck, bringing his hand sharply down onto Sherlock's cheek, the force of the blow knocking him hard to the side, feeling his head collide with the wall as his legs gave way and he slid to the floor, hot tears prickling in his eyes and run down his cheeks.

Jim stared at him in confusion, his eyes wide, his fingers curled in claw-like balls "What's the matter with you? You never cry!"

Sherlock shook almost uncontrollably, tears pouring down his cheeks in rapid succession "s-sorry." He stammered between gasping sobs.

Jim stared down at him "Stop it! STOPI IT!" he dropped down on his knees beside him, grabbing tufts of Sherlock's curls and pulling their faces closer to each other so they were mere millimetres apart "What's wrong with you?" he demanded.

Sherlock shook his head, he didn't know what to say, he couldn't talk, he couldn't think, he couldn't even breath. His vision was clouded from the tears that Jim's face swam in front of his eyes, and he shook violently. Through his clouded, shaky vision he saw Jim pull something out of his pocket, and flicking it open reveal a long sharp edge.

"Jim?" he stammered.

Jim's palm made sharp contact with Sherlock's cheek "Shut up." He growled, grabbing Sherlock's arm again and pulling the sleeve up to his elbow.

"Jim!"

He slapped him again, running his fingers lightly over where John's butterfly was drawn.

"No." Sherlock whimpered.

"Shut up!" Jim snapped "Don't make a noise or I swear." He didn't need to finish.

Sherlock nodded, clenching his fists into tight balls. He felt the sharp clean blade gently press over the butterfly, he tried to take deep breaths but his breathing was shallow and shaky. The cool blade sliced the skin open in one swift movement and it took everything he had left inside himself to cling onto to prevent himself from screaming. He could feel warm blood erupt around the blade and he clenched his fists tighter, his nails digging sharply into the bottom of his palms, scrunching his eyes together.

His wrists stung so badly, the hot blood bubbling up to the surface of his wound, right across the centre of John's butterfly.

Rage seemed to boil up in every fibre of his body. How could Jim do this to him? How could he kill John's butterfly like that?

He wanted to scream and hit and do whatever it took for as long as he could to cause his godfather pain.

Tears escaped down his already tearstained cheeks.

He reached up, drawing his arm back as it to strike but Jim grabbed his wrist before he could and dragging Sherlock up so they were face to face, he ran his fingers, stained with the red blood of his godson, along Sherlock's cheek "You're such a pretty boy you know Shirley. Pity isn't it?" Those men thought you were pretty too." He sighed "They hurt you didn't they?" he raised the fingers up and tapped Sherlock's temple "In there." His fingers crept under Sherlock's shirt and rested directly over his beating heart "and here." He tilted his head to the side "they just thought you were pretty, and they want to touch pretty things." His fingers circled Sherlock's collar bones "Just like John. Johnny Boy just wants to touch pretty things like you." A small smile played on his twisted face.

"You're wrong." Sherlock said simply.

The smile vanished and the cold eyes flicked upwards "Don't tell me I'm wrong." He hissed.

"John loves me." Sherlock argued.

"What like he loves that girl he's marrying?"

Sherlock's palm swiped across Jim's cheek as hard as he could muster, the force snapping Jim's head to the side.

Jim grabbed his wrist, a red mark quickly flaring on his cheek, he held Sherlock's wrist in his tight clenched fists "You're mine." He hissed, his teeth clenched and his eyes blazing in a mixture of hurt and anger.

"No I'm not." Sherlock argued, standing strong but withering under Jim's burning glare.

Jim slapped him across the face.

His cheeks were smarting and his wrist still stung, splatters of blood staining his wrist arm and hand, his lip quivering and his legs trembling.

"Mine." Jim repeated, shoving him with both arms against the wall with one hand he forced Sherlock's chin upwards, jarring his head against the wall.

Sherlock winced, thrashing his limbs in every direction to could to escape.

Jim held him in place with both his strong arms and shoved his knee up, kneeing his godson in the groin.

"Fuck!" Sherlock gasped, shooting pain shot through his whole body, feeling almost nauseous.

Jim smiled down at his godson, releasing him and he slid down the wall squinting in pain "Oh Shirley," He chuckled "John doesn't love you."

Sherlock thrashed his arms out grabbing Jim's leg but Jim slapped him again across the face.

"You're mine." Jim grinned, a look of insanity on his pale face. He knelt down, grasping the front of Sherlock's t'shirt in a tight fist "yes?"

Sherlock hesitated. He didn't want to nod but he almost did feel like a position to this man who had raised him since hsi parents had dided.

"Yes?!" Jim shook him.

Sherlock nodded quickly.

"Say it." Jim demanded.

"Yours."

"Good boy." Jim leant forward and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock resisted the burning urge to punch him, every cell in his body fizzing with electrical impulses, it took every sane thought he had left to stop him snapping.

Jim reached into his pocket, a pulling out several blue and red pills he thrust them into Sherlock's palm "Temazapam, 30mg each." He informed his godson, standing up.

Sherlock surveyed the three pills in the palm of his hand and jiggled them around a little. One swallow, that was all it took and he'd be in blissful dream-less limbo, he wouldn't have to worry about, or care or hurt. Even for just a few hours. His bloody wrist stung and all his limbs throbbed and he was pretty sure he'd have blue cheek bones and a large lump on the back of his head in the morning. He could remember having black marks that fit the shape of his godfather's clenched fist around his wrist once or twice, he could also remember one particularly bad time when he'd had black and blue hand prints across his left cheek as well as a puffy right eye and a split lip – speaking of which he could taste blood in his mouth. Great.

As he stared down at the pills in his hand he could feel Jim's eyes upon him.

He did want to sleep, to find some form of escape from the pain, but if John found out what he had done he would be upset and angry and disappointed in him. Sherlock didn't want that.

Shaking his head he placed the pills on the floor next to him.

"You don't want them?" Jim asked shocked.

"No thanks."

Jim scoffed, kneeling down and staring into his godson's eyes "You're an odd one." He mused gently tapping across Sherlock's cheek and nose "Two weeks ago you fucking swallowed a handful of them with a load of vodka just to get Johnny Boy's attention."

Sherlock snapped, lunging at Jim as if he had just uttered the most insulting thing he possibly could, clawing both of his aching fists as close to Jim's face as he could. Jim took hold of Sherlock's neck with both hands and with as much force as possible exerted he smashed to crown of the boy's head against the hard wall, jutting his jaw upwards.

Sherlock struggled for a moment or two before all senses seemed to shut down and he was drowning in a pool of dark cold blackness as his vision was blotted with black ink.

...

He could feel his whole body throbbing. Every single inch of him ached like hell. He kept his eyes tightly closed listening out for a moment. He could hear several men crossing the flat outside, young probably, definitely drunk judging by the racket they were making, they came and went in time, Sherlock still motionless on the floor listening to an almost painfully repetitive pulse of loud rap music being played in the flat directly above him.

As far as he could judge – noise wise – the flat was empty, he couldn't have been out too long.

He twitched slightly flexing his painfully tight muscles and fluttering his eyes open. It was almost pitch black besides from the windows and the crack beneath the front door.

Slowly he sat up, becoming aware of more bumps and bruises than he had first anticipated.

He brought his wrist up to his eye-line. The blood had dried leaving thick red crust smeared around his wrist, the ugly scabby slash sitting right in the middle of butterfly John. He was lucky really, if it had been even a centimetre shy of where it was the main artery would have been split and he could have bled to death on the floor. Was that lucky? Bleeding to death on the floor would surely be better than this. He examined his face with his fingers, his finger tips running over several prominent bumps mainly on his jaw and cheekbones. And running his fingers through his hair he found his curls tangled and sticky by clumps of dried blood.

He must look like the fucking walking dead right now. His hands were clammy and his whole body was quivering. In fear? What was he scared of? John. He was scared of what John might think. Would John be angry with him? Annoyed? Upset?

Sherlock hadn't meant for this to happen. Was it his fault Jim had been angry with him? Did that make him a bad person?

He shivered. Contemplation – no, dreading – what John might think.

He didn't want to stay in the flat. At least not for tonight. Where would he go though? It was too cold to sleep on the street even with the warmest cloths he owned. Nobody on the Estate was decent enough to let him stay in their flat. He could go and see if Mrs Hudson might let him stay at hers, although he hadn't spoken properly to her since he had told her that her husband had been selling drugs to school kids, he was pretty sure that Mr Hudson was now facing a verdict of up to 25 years in prison.

Could he go to John's? Would John let him stay? Well, he could at least ask.

He got to his feet, flinching with almost every movement. He could just take his school bag couldn't he? He usually slept in what ever cloths he wore during the day anyway, and quite a lot of the time the next day. He fumbled around in the dark into his room, and swinging his school bag over his shoulder he caught sight of the skull. He stared at it for a moment or two before picking it up and stowing it in his bag, then thinking again placed his violin in its case and flinging it over his other shoulder.

It was half eight, Jim had come home at around ten past seven, had he really been out for an hour? Anyway it wouldn't take him long to walk to John's house from here. It was fucking freezing outside too so not many people would be out.

He didn't have any particularly warm clothing either so he'd have to run. Oh joy.

Opening the door he stepped out and making his way down the freezing floors he shivered. He kept walking his teeth clattering together.

He did know the way, vaguely at least, so it didn't take him long to find the right route to get to John's shared house.

Looking up at the house he felt oddly intimidated, it looked like such a happy place, the windows seemingly glowing with warmth. Everything just looked so perfect. Was he missing out on this with John? While Mary got everything? The man, the house, the kid. Mary's life was perfect, she had John.

Hesitantly he knocked on the door, shivering almost violently. The door opened and Mary poked her head out "Hello – oh." Her smile faded and her face took on a mould of confusion.

"You don't remember me do you?" Sherlock asked, blinking up at her, still shivering.

Her eyes narrowed, the look on her face resembling a young child struggling with a maths question.

"I came for dinner once, a while ago." Sherlock trembled with cold "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

A look of realisation washed over her face "Yes i remember you." She smiled "John's you biology teacher isn't he?"

_Along with other things _Sherlock thought privately to himself, but he nodded politely "May I come in?"

"Oh, of course of course." She opened the front door for him and tapped him on the shoulder as he came in, recoiling as she did "You're freezing, do you want some tea or anything?"

Sherlock nodded "yes please."

"Ok, don't worry I'll get you some." She smiled kindly and went into the kitchen, beckoning to Sherlock to follow her, a command he obeyed without question, and she busied herself with the kettle "John's not home at the moment." She explained "He had to go to school late but he'll be back soon."

A rather awkward silence followed. Neither of them wanted to make conversation. She gave him the tea and they sat at opposite ends of the table avoiding each other's eyes.

The silence was broken by the sound of the front door open and close, and Mary got up as John entered the kitchen.

The very sight of John standing in the kitchen doorway made all of Sherlock's worries and hopes fade away and it took an effort not to jump up and wrap all his four limbs around him and kiss him.

John froze, staring at Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table as Mary greeted him with a peck on the cheek.

Sherlock smiled and waved.

"Sherlock, can I talk to you in the living room?" John asked, still staring at him in utter confusion.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but leaving his almost empty tea cup he got to his feet and scurried into the living room. John followed and closing the door behind them leaving them alone in the room.

"Hi John." Sherlock smiled at his older lover.

John did not smile in return, instead he stared at Sherlock with a look of confusion, concern and shock "ok Sherlock," he finally said, his voice shaky "First, what the fuck happened to your face?"

Sherlock's smile dropped off his face and all of his guilt and worries suddenly came rushing back "how bad is it?"

"Really really bad." John reached out and ran his finger over Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock flinched in pain, his eyes screwed up against what felt like a harsh stab against his cheek.

John sharply retracted his hand "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He pulled Sherlock into a hug.

"Ow! Ow!" Sherlock moaned in pain.

John released him and held him at arms length "Sherlock, what happened to you?" he said almost harshly.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock trembled.

"What happened?" John asked, softer this time.

"Jim was high and we got into a fight, it's nothing."

"What do you mean?!" John practically exploded "Sherlock it's not nothing I..." he paused, a look of horror on his face "What is that?!" he stared down at Sherlock's arm, the blood had leaked through the lightly coloured material of Sherlock's sleeve, leaving a large dark blood stain.

"I...it's...um..." Sherlock glanced down at it "It wasn't me." He added truthfully.

John didn't say anything, he backed away a little, leaning against the sofa, a look of absolute disgust and hate on his face.

"John?" Sherlock asked tentatively "Are you disappointed?"

"No Sherlock." His expression changed to one of sadness "Well not at you."

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Can I stay here tonight please?"

John looked wary, glancing in the direction of the kitchen where Mary still was, his brow furrowed "Wait, just tonight? Like go back tomorrow?"

Sherlock nodded "Well I can't stay here."

"But you can't go back _there_!" John argued.

"I have to, where else am I gonna go?"

...

Greg Lestrade sat in his old trackies and Stray Cats t'shirt, beer in his hand, watching television in the living room of his flat. He was watching the 10 o'clock BBC news and not taking in a word of it. Just doom and gloom as always, probably nothing that was going to affect him too much in an irreversible way.

The sound of his bell ringing almost made him jump out of his skin and he quixkly got up to answer it. "Hello?" he asked, composing himself as he pressed the button.

"Hello Greg, it's John."

What was John Watson doing at his flat?

"Oh hi John, I'll buzz you in." He pressed the other button.

Greg lived on the second floor of five so it took only a matter of seconds before he opened the door to his flat to John...and Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes was in his flat? Greg stared at him as if staring would make him believe that this was some kind of trick or dream or... anything? He turned to John and put their faces close so only John could hear "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

John looked slightly awkward "Yeah, could he stay here please?"

"Stay?" Greg asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Yeah, like could he live here?"

"LIVE HERE?!" Greg gazed at him as if he'd lost his mind, and indicated Sherlock "Sherlock Holmes, live here? With me?"

"Not for long though." John added "Just until I can find him somewhere else. Please Greg, I..." he tried desperately to think of something "I will pay you."

Sherlock had taken to wandering around the flat, inspecting all the furniture, photos, carpet, curtains.

Greg lowered his voice and leaned closer to John so Sherlock couldn't hear them "Can't he stay somewhere else? Why does he have to stay with me, doesn't he have a family to go home to?"

John shook his head "He doesn't have a family, he hasn't got anywhere to go to, I can't send him back there Greg, I can't. Just look at him."

They both turned to stare at Sherlock, still idly inspecting Greg's residence. His swollen blue and green bruises looking like large blots of ink under his skin.

Greg turned back to John who still stared at Sherlock, a look of almost painful compassion on his face.

"Oh my God." Greg rolled his eyes and smacked his forehead with his palm, running his gingers through his grey hair.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"How long John?" Greg glared at him.

John stated panicking, his palms sweating "How long what?"

"How long have you been screwing him?" Greg demanded, a look of almost loathing on his face.

John hesitated, mulling over what he should say "I...it's..." he struggled for words "I love him Greg."

Greg rolled his eyes and raised his eyebrows "You love _him_?"he pointed to Sherlock.

John nodded.

"Shit John." Greg ran his hands through his hair again "You are fucked. You are royally fucked."

John sighed "I know." His gaze dropped to the floor "Could he please just stay here? Just for a little bit?"

Greg sighed and bit his lip "How long?"

"As short as I can possibly make it, I promise."

Greg sighed again, he must be going insane "Fine, but you make it as short as possible!" he snapped.

...

Mary must already be asleep, John unlocked the front door and made his way quickly into the living room, pulling his coat off and shivering.

"Where is he?"

John practically jumped out of his own skin.

Jim sat on the sofa in the living room, his fingers knitted together on his knees, his powder grey suit and black hair immaculate, a look of distain on his face as he surveyed a shocked John. How had Jim gotten into his house? The door had been locked, hadn't it?

"Who?" John asked without thinking.

Jim rolled his eyes and stood up "Who do you think?"

"Sherlock?"

"Well done genius. Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, curly black hair, blue eyes, pale, too thin it shouldn't be allowed, about this tall." He held his hand to around Sherlock's height "Where is he?"

John had never been much of an actor, or a liar for that matter. In fact before he had met Sherlock he'd considered himself quite an honest man. "I don't know." He lied.

"Don't play games Johnny Boy, I know he came here, where else is he going to go apart from a street corner or a pub doorstep?"

"He's not here." John answer, trying to stay as calm and collected as he possibly could, but it was hard under Jim's mad gaze.

"Well I know that." Jim pointed lazily, directly at the centre of John's chest "Where did you take him?" he began walking slowly, circling John like a vulture boring in or its prey.

"Nowhere."

He halted directly in front of him and sighed deeply "Ok, ok, if you want to play that's just find with me."

John glared at him "This isn't a game."

Jim smiled, stepping closer to him so they were almost nose-to-nose "everything's a game so long as you can make it fun." He raised his hands up and ran the tips of his fingers along the tingling sensitive skin of John's neck. "You really don't know anything about him, you know." He added.

"What don't I know about him?"

"That he's bipolar." Jim grinned.

John's eyes widened. He wasn't sure if he was surprised that this was the case, or that Sherlock hadn't told him. Medical knowledge seemed to be recovering in his mind _Bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive disorder is a mood disorder in which people experience mood swings. People with bipolar disorder often experience phases of frenzie and mania as well depression. Often genetically inherited, people with the disorder often are misdiagnosed schizophrenic. There is a higher risk of self harming, drug use and suicide in people with the disorder. Famous sufferers include: Vincent Van Gough, Stephen Fry, Axl Rose, Buzz Aldrin, Ben Stiller, Carrie Fisher, Charles Dickens, Abraham Lincoln, Mikey Way, Ozzy Osbourne, Napoleon Bonaparte, Tim Burton, Winston Churchill and Kurt Cobain. _

Jim leant towards John so their faces were so close their noses mere millimetres from touching "You..." Jim flicked his tongue, the noise echoing around the room that suddenly felt a lot more empty "Don't get involved," he could feel the eyes boring into his own "You're in way over your head Johnny Boy." He seemed to relish in john's discomfort "people might get hurt. People might get killed. It's a big bad world Johnny, unpredictable unfortunate things can easily happen."

"You're insane." John breathed.

"Oh no shit, now tell me something I don't know." He leaned closer to softly brush his icy lips to John's just for a fraction of a second. John would do anything to get this mad man away from him, and away from Sherlock "I can see why Shirley likes it." Jim mused, chuckling slightly.

John felt blood boil under his skin.

Jim smiled "catch you later." He flicked his tongue once more before turning to leave. Leaving John motionless and frozen like an icy statue, feeling the ghost of the madman on his lips.

**Oh yes I did. Now I don't know about you, but I quite liked that little Jim/John kiss there. **

**Now Sherlock does have bipolar disorder, I didn't make that up. And you know who else has bipolar disorder? **_**ME**_**! It's a perfectly manageable condition; people with it can lead successful lives and be productive members of society. **

**Anyway, reviews make me happy (hint hint) **


	16. Nowhere Fast

**Hey **

**I have to apologise because this chapter is SO FREAKING SHORT, also it took me a while to get up. Literally had the worse writers block ever for ages. So sorry about that.**

**...I don't really have anything else to say to be honest. **

**Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. It's not angsty at all, writing so much angst was making me sad so yeah. **

**You know I love reviews, and I will do my best to reply to them all, plus I am semi-open to requests if anybody wants something, so yeah. **

**Love Micky xxxxxxxxxxxx**

The class scattered and the loud noise of scraping chairs filled the classroom.

"Anderson, remember that detention after school tomorrow." John called to the class as a whole "you too Sally." He addressed Donovan who scowled at him in utter disgust "And Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock's head flicked round.

"Could you please stay behind, I need to talk to you about your homework." He smiled.

Sherlock nodded and approached John's desk while the classroom emptied "Was there something wrong with my homework Mr Watson?" he asked innocently once the classroom was empty besides them.

"How's Greg's?" John asked without hesitation.

"I've been there one night...?" Sherlock answered looking confused.

"But how is it?" John encouraged.

"It's reasonably sized, quite clean, not too cluttered."

John sighed "How are you?"

"I'm ok."

"Are you?"

Sherlock nodded, his curls bouncing "Right as rain."

John indicated with his hand for Sherlock to come closer which he did "If you weren't then tell me, ok? And I'd find you somewhere else to stay."

"Mr Lestrade's is fine."

"Good." John put both his arms around Sherlock and hugged him, softly kissing his cheek at the same time.

Sherlock seemed to have other ideas though because he twisted his head around so their lips met.

Bumping their lips together after such a long time almost felt like heaven, and for a moment they both felt like they could float.

John smiled at his younger lover fondly.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we ok?"

"Us? Yeah. Well I hope so anyway.

"You're not angry with me then" Sherlock checked, almost fearful.

John sighed and ran his fingers through the boy's jet black curls above his forehead "Not at you. But I am angry, an d a bit confused." He exhaled rather heavily "Why did you never tell me you were bipolar?"

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes wider than usual with a quite blank expression on his young face "You never asked."

"I shouldn't have to ask."

Sherlock paused "Who told you anyway?"

"Jim did."

Sherlock eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"It's a long story."

Sherlock didn't ask, in fact he didn't say anything at all, but stood on his toes to tightly wrap his arms around his teacher again. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and limply mirrored his embrace.

Sherlock felt oddly warm and immediately felt his heart accelerate "John?"

John pulled away for a second.

Again he remained silent, but flinging both his arms around his older lovers neck and crashing their lips together. John jest seemed to lose all thought and immediately wrapped both his arms tightly around Sherlock's waist and responding with almost ridiculous enthusiasm, picking his student off the ground and sharply sitting him down on top of the desk and trailing his lips down the side of Sherlock's lips down along his jaw and peppering kisses down his neck and over his rather prominent collarbones.

God this was perfect.

His hands wandering along the boy's chest, rubbing his fingers down the back of his spine and ribs and grazing over the rim of his trousers which were a lot tighter than before. Pulling millimetres away for a second and grinner before resuming kissing, running his fingers along the rim of Sherlock's trousers and feeling his own grow tighter as he did, he slowly began fiddling with Sherlock's belt and flies.

There was a loud knock on the door.

The broke apart and froze, staring at each other with wide eyes.

"John?" came Molly's voice from the other side of the door.

"Shit!" John cursed under his breath. Glancing back at Sherlock who's usually bloodless cheeks were quite flushed.

"In the cupboard." John hissed.

"What?"

"Get in the bloody cupboard!"

Seemingly catching up to reality Sherlock jumped down from the desk and scurried into the cupboard with lead off from the classroom, John quickly following him. The cupboard was only small, as well as the shelves which had taken over every wall stacked full with crappy cheap out of date chemicals that the school had bought god knows when, there was only about as much space for one person to stand with a relative amount of elbow room. Two people would struggle to fit.

They stood nose-to-nose, squashed together into the together into this tiny space and simultaneously burst into fits of giggles. They were almost like two mischievous children almost caught in the act, which honestly wasn't to dissimilar to the truth.

"Well, what do we do now?" Sherlock asked rather breathlessly, still sniggering.

"Just wait a while." John chuckled "wait until they leave, after a while they'll just assume that I'm not here."

Sherlock sighed and began inspecting the room with slightly uninterested curiosity, his eyes scanning each shelf around him "I'm not allowed to be in here you know." He said finally, poking a rather large lump of calcium carbonate with his left index finger.

"yeah? You're also not allowed to be secretly seeing your biology teacher."

Sherlock sighed again, this time rather deep and sarcastically "that's true." He glanced at John with a crocked smile on his face "And you're not allowed to see your student. That's a shame." He planted a quick kiss on his teacher's lips.

They remained silent for a moment or two, Sherlock still idly inspecting the subjects of the many shelves of plastic containers or reactive powders, his curiosity obviously dwindling.

"You still got your butterflies?" John asked.

"Oh yeah," Sherlock nodded "Thirteen of them."

"Do you need thirteen butterflies?"

Sherlock nodded harder "Yeah."

"How's your wrist?" John asked tentatively.

Sherlock paused, avoiding John's eyes "Stings still."

"Hey," John reached up to cup Sherlock's hollow cheek with his hand, and he sighed "I can't even try to imagine what it's like." He mused, partly to himself, his voice only just above whispering.

"What what's like?"

"In there." He tapped Sherlock's temple "You know you're a lot stronger than you probably like to think."

"Really?"

John nodded "Of course, you have to deal with a lot-" he paused "-a hell of a lot, more than anybody should have to go through in practically their whole life and you're only young, and you shouldn't have to go through it, or deal with it – any of it. You deserve to be happy."

"I'm happy that I've got you." One of the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched in a tiny crocked smile "You make me happy."

John smiled widely "And you make me happy. And I love you, you know."

"I know." And standing closer he again embraced his teacher in a tight hug "I love you too."

John held him tightly, running his fingers up and down his back comfortingly, feeling his ribs and spine with the tips of his fingers.

"Do you think Miss Hooper's gone now?" Sherlock asked into John's shoulder.

"I'm not sure."

"She slept with Jim once you know." Sherlock added.

John almost recoiled, pushing Sherlock out of the embrace and staring at him in complete shock "What?! Miss Hooper? Miss Hooper slept with Jim? Molly slept with Jim?"

Sherlock nodded, looking amused at John's stunned reaction, and keeping his tone conversation-like "And Seb." He added.

John's eyebrows mashed together "Why? Why would she do that?"

Sherlock grinned "Pretty simple explanation really."

"Oh yeah? What explanation is that?"

"They got her stoned at parent evening."

John stared at him.

"You have no idea how much I wish I was kidding but it's true, and she doesn't talk to me anymore now."

"That is really messed up."

Sherlock let out a tiny sigh, his expression almost sad "that's Jim for you"

"Well you don't have to live with Jim anymore." John placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek "He's not going to hurt you anymore, ok? I'm going to make sure he doesn't, ok?"

"Jim gets what he wants John, nobody stops that."

"I would."

Sherlock surveyed him through sceptical eyes "I've never met anybody like you before."

"Like me?"

"You look at people and you think you can make them better. And you're not even scared."

"Not scared? Sherlock of course I'm scared, I'm bloody terrified."

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes piercing. He slowly twined both his long arms around his lover, nuzzling his head into the crook of his neck "Don't be." He mumbled, the sound muffled.

John rested his cheek on Sherlock's curly head "I think they're gone," he hissed "We can go back in the classroom now."

"No." Sherlock shook his head keeping a tight grasp on his lover's hand "I like it here."

John grinned "I do too actually."

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment or two before flinging both his arms around him again. And crashing their mouths together, colliding roughly with each other's bodies they gripped tightly to one another, stumbling around in the tiny space, fumbling with each other's clothes.

Pulling the bottom of Sherlock's school jumper up over his head, and swiftly, carelessly undoing the buttons of his school shirt, heat and lust pulsing through him as their tongues danced together as they gripped each other's bodies. Sherlock twined his long skeleton fingers into his teacher's soft sandy hair and running his lips down and gently sucking just behind his earlobe.

John groaned as he caressed the boy's bare chest. The he froze.

Sherlock softly pulled away looking confused "John?"

He didn't speak, instead looking around at the many shelves on the walls stacked high with chemicals.

"John?" he said slightly louder, waving his hand in front of John's face.

John gave a misty-eyes, slightly amused smile "We're snogging in my classroom supply closet." He mused.

They both looked at each other, and for a moment both their expressions were slightly amused before – for the second time – they both simultaneously burst into uncontrollable fits of giggles.

"Looks like it doesn't it." Sherlock grinned

**I admit it's not the best chapter I've written, and ITS DESGUSTINGLY SHORT UGHHHH, I'm really angry with myself for this being a bad short chapter, but hey. Hopefully you guys won't mind being the lovely people that i know you all to be **

**So yeah reviews, please review, I will love you forever **


	17. The Youngest Was The Most Loved

**Hello readers **

**As you can see I have updated, so yeah. Still kinda short but longer than last time so that's cool. **

**Unfortunately this chapter does not feature to lovely John Watson. No this chapter is all about Sherlock and Lestarde bonding time. **

**TO CLEAT THIS UP RIGHT NOW, there is no Sherlock/Lestrade or John/Lestrade what so ever in this fic, or in any of my fics, I don't ship either pairing so yeah. And also there is Dimstrade in this (thats Dimmock/Lestrade if you were wondering), sorry Mystrade fans, I just ship Dimstrade harder, so yeah. **

**Hope you all enjoy **

**Xxx**

Chapter 16

Sherlock been living in Greg's flat for four days. In truth Sherlock was practically not trouble at all, everyday he'd just get up and make himself tea and toast and walk to school on his own, and once he got home he'd revise and complete all of his homework - without Greg even mentioning it, let alone nag him – then he'd either practice his violin or just read in his room, Greg would make dinner – which was either pasta, fried egg, beans on toast or TESCO microwave meals which was about the only thing Greg could actually cook without making a massive mess or burning something- and then in the evenings they'd watch whatever Greg had recorded on the TV, sitting next to each other rather awkwardly on the sofa in silence. They didn't talk to each other much either, they mumbled "good mornings" and "good nights" to each other to be polite, and Greg would ask how school had been and Sherlock would say it was fine, but that was about it, they never had any proper full-length conversations with each other, it was just awkward. It was beginning to unnerve Greg , it was odd living with somebody who you never talked to, it was like having a ghost there.

They sat at separate sides of the sofa, Greg stretched out while Sherlock was curled up, his arms wrapped neatly around his legs with his knees resting under his chin, the oversized woollen jumper he was wearing (which Greg was almost certain was John's that he was borrowing) making him look like a rather small child. This episode of Law and Order UK was an old one that Greg must have recorded a very long time ago and watched over and over probably a million times before and it was boring him immensely, and Sherlock too it seemed.

He sighed, exhaling as much air out of his lungs as he possibly could for as long as he could in an attempt to make things even the slightest less awkward, before deciding that it just wasn't working. Sitting up he used to remote to turn to TV off and turned to the boy on his left who turned to him, shocked slightly at the break in the usual routine "How was school?"

"Fine." Sherlock answered sounding taken aback, exactly the answer Greg had been dreading.

"Sherlock!" Greg exclaimed, the anxiety and annoyance in his voice making him sound positively livid "We haven't had a proper conversation, please could you just talk to me? Please?"

"About what?"

Already this was probably the most interaction they'd had all day "Anything! Anything at all, I really don't mind, just something."

"Ok." Sherlock gave a tiny smile "Well, how are things with you and your boyfriend then?"

Greg paused, bewildered "What do you mean?"

Sherlock grinned at his teacher bewilderment "Mr Lestrade," he began in a mock-sympathetic voice "I'm not stupid, I was bound to find out sooner or later." He grinned "Don't worry sir, I'm not going to out you. I haven't told anybody, haven't even told John."

Greg's eyes narrowed suspiciously "How do you know?"

"Your texts." He said simply, as if it were obvious.

"You've been reading my texts?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes "No. You just get texts sometimes, and you always answer specific ones straight away, some you jest check and leave for a bit and others you answer them straight away."

"So?"

"It's not just that." He continued "After school you always go out for a while, probably for coffee, but you always smarten up before you go, so probably a relationship, reasonably new relationship judging by the fact that you only recently got divorced and that was because of your wife and not you. Therefore girlfriend. But you don't tell people, in fact you haven't told anybody yet, but you'd tell people if you've got a new girlfriend – people usually do – and it's nobody in school otherwise you'd leave with them, but you don't, you leave alone; and all meetings take place outside of school too. So it's something you're hiding from people," he raised his eyebrows "New relationship plus something to hide. Could mean a number of things, but the most probable being somebody of the same gender as yourself. Therefore boyfriend, it's not that hard to figure out so long as you can spot the obvious." He paused, smiling, looking almost proud of himself "So tell me about him." he smiled smugly.

"I... I don't think this is an appropriate conversation to be having with you Sherlock."

The smile slid off Sherlock's face and he scowled, his eyes moving back around to the television screen which was still switched off.

Greg huffed, feeling rather annoyed. That was the longest conversation they'd ever had hands down, and he'd just ended it like that. He may never get a chance to have another conversation with this boy that long again. "His name's Ian." He gave in.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly, and tuned back to face him.

"He's a detective inspector at Scotland Yard, he's thirty-five, and he's-" Greg struggled to find the right work to describe him.

"Perfect?"

Greg smiled to himself "Yeah, he's great, and he's so... and yeah... he is perfect."

"He sounds nice."

Greg paused "Why did you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"About my wife?"

Sherlock shrugged "You had a right to know. And I know I'm the biggest hypocrite in the world for saying that, but you did."

"Well... thank you anyway, for tell me I mean."

He shrugged again "No problem."

"Hey erm, do you remember my son? He used to go to Barts, you know."

"What Sam?"

"Yeah Sam, Sam Lestrade, he would have been in year 10 when you started, he's quite tall, with like light brown hair."

Sherlock nodded "I remember him."

Greg smiled.

"But I only remember him because I caught him fingering Helena Stoner in the boys toilets round by the science corridor on parents evening when I was in year 8."

Greg's smile vanished just as quickly as it had appeared "Oh... which one was Helena Stoner."

"Shy one, looked a bit like a rat, one of the Stoner twins."

"How do you remember stuff like that so well?"

Sherlock shrugged "I don't know, I'm just good at it I guess."

"And you're good at figuring things out too, you know, and you're really clever Sherlock."

Sherlock sucked the inside of his lips slightly "Thanks Mr Lestrade."

"You know you can call me Greg if you want, I honestly don't mind."

"Ok." He paused "Where is Sam now anyway?"

Greg leaned back into the sofa, looking up at the ceiling and exhaling "University, he's doing English language, and when he's not there he usually stays with his mum, and he comes and visits sometimes, but not that often," his bit his lip "Usually too busy with work and stuff."

Sherlock surveyed the older man, he almost looked diminished "You miss him, don't you?"

"Well course, he is my son."

Sherlock didn't speak, tightening his arms around his legs and twiddling his fingers together.

"Hey, you ok?"

He nodded, although only half-heartedly, and gazing in confusion at the wall above the television, his brow furrowed "I...just don't get it."

"Why? What don't you get?"

"People. Feelings." He turned back to Greg "I didn't even used to think other people had feelings like I do," he paused, and glanced at the floor "I mean, I just thought they were like computer programs."

"Why'd you think that?"

He reached up and tapped his own temple "Asperger's." He sighed deeply "I just don't understand, that's all."

"Well there's nothing wrong with tha-"

"Yeah there is." Sherlock interrupted, and wringing his hands up by his ears "My mind just doesn't work right, and most of the time I'm just really pissed off at everything, and most of the time I don't even know what to do and I just think I'm completely insane, and I just don't get it at all."

Greg hesitated, not sure what he should say. Sherlock Holmes was the type of person you came across once in your life, twice if you were lucky "what – What about John?"

His curly head snapped up "What about him?" he asked, sounding defensive.

"You understand John don't you?"

Sherlock shook his head "No. Well more than I get other people at least, but still not that much."

"You're a good kid Sherlock, you're a bit mad, and you do illegal things, but you're a good kid."

"I would disagree, but... thanks sir."

"Greg."

"Gregory." He corrected himself.

They smiled rather awkwardly at each other and simultaneously looked back at the television screen.

"You done all your homework?" Greg asked, not sure what else he could say.

Sherlock nodded, still avoiding awkward eye contact, and raising his hand to his face to scratch his nose.

"What have you got on your arm? Pen?"

He felt the boy's whole body tense, and he instantly shook his arm so the sleeve of the oversized jumper fell back down and dropped limply over his hands so only the tips of his fingers were visible "It's nothing really, it's just a butterfly."

Butterfly? John had mentioned something about butterflies to Greg that very day, and he wracked his brains trying to remember what it was "Wait, no I think I've heard of that, you're supposed to name them or something, aren't you?"

Sherlock gave a tiny wary nod, twisting the sleeves of the jumper tightly around his fists.

"John tell you about that?"

Another nod, followed by awkward silence.

"You know," Greg started hesitantly "it's ok. You and John, I mean."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Mr Lestrade was a teacher himself, and here he was, saying he and John were ok "Have you ever screwed any of your pupils sir?"

"NO! No, no, no, definitely not. But..." he frowned, struggling to express what he thought "I mean... John's a great guy."

"He is." Sherlock butted in defensively.

"And... you know, you two."

"I know." Sherlock twiddled his thumbs absentmindedly.

"Yeah. So have you done all your homework?"

Sherlock glanced at him in slight amusement "You do realise that you've already asked me that?"

"Oh... yeah, I have."

Sherlock sniggered slightly "So then, when is your detective inspector in shining armour coming then?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mr Lestrade, you do realise that I wasn't born yesterday, I'm not _that_ stupid." Hr smiled "When I go to bed?"

Greg didn't say anything. Damn this kid was good. How the hell did he know that? It was like he was fucking telepathic or something.

"It's ok, you can go and meet him now if you want, I don't care if you do or not."

"I... I would have told you..."

"Liar." Sherlock grinned.

Greg couldn't help but grin back. This kid really was a genius. "Ok fine, you're right. You win."

"Excellent, so when are you meeting him?"

"He's going to be coming here in about ten minutes."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, but turning his gaze away, his eyes studied his own fingers which were twisted together.

The sat in awkward silence.

Greg didn't quite know what to think of Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was the blabby boy in top set year 11 maths class who knew everybody's secrets and didn't hesitate to blurt them out. Sherlock was the boy that had ruined his marriage – but in honesty that wasn't true. Greg's marriage had been wrecked for a long time before then; he hadn't even been happy married to a woman who was so diminishing and controlling, but he'd stuck with it for Sam, she hadn't done the same, Sherlock had just been the messenger. Nobody ever seemed to like him – wrong! John liked Sherlock, of that much was certain, liked and more, who knew what else. Greg himself didn't _dislike _Sherlock, not anymore at least, in fact he was actually starting to begin to understand him a little more. Possibly even like him.

The door bell rang loudly. Splintering through the dead silence and causing both of them to practically jump out of their skins in fright.

After a moment of shocked silence, Greg got to his feet and pressed the buzzer, he turned back to look at the boy on the sofa who sat completely still, still in a position of fright, clutching his legs and gazing at a fixed point in the opposite direction, with an intensely smug look on his face. It was almost humorous.

The front door to the flat opened "Hi Greg."

Greg almost felt his heart skip a beat "Hi." He replied as casually as he possibly could, but the massive ear-to-ear smile gave him away.

"How are you" Ian asked, leaning forward to quickly peck his lovers lips and enter the flat.

Ian was by no means the smartest person, and he wasn't particularly handsome either. In fact he was rather average. But he had a certain glint in his eyes, and youthful mischievous glint. It was the first thing Greg had actually noticed about him, and it was the thing he loved most about him.

He stopped dead once he turned into the living room space, winter jacket still on, shivering with a puzzled expression on his face. He slowly turned to Greg, his thumb pointing to Sherlock "Kid?"

"Yeah, that's Sherlock."

Ian still stared at him in utter bewilderment "Who?"

"He's from school, I – I teacher him."

"Then why is he _here_?"

Greg extended his hand to the DI then addressed the boy sitting silently on the sofa "Sherlock, can you go to bed please?"

Sherlock huffed and sulkily got to his feet and dragged himself through the flat to his room, in proper teenage fashion.

"He..." Greg began once Sherlock's bedroom door was firmly closed, then realising there was no good way to attempt to explain the situation.

"Yeah?" Ian crossed his arms across his chest, raising his eyebrows.

"Um... well... he..."

Ian stared at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Well, you see he doesn't really have anywhere else to go." #Ian's eyebrows crawled even further upwards "So he has to stay here?" he gestured around at the flat "With you? His maths teacher? Greg, can you please just tell me what's going on? What's happening?"

"I'm just trying to do him a favour that's all." Greg sighed, reaching up and linking fingers with the DI and squeezing his hand "He- he just needs my help right now, that's all."

"Help his family can't give him?"

"He hasn't got a family."

Ian's face became a little more sympathetic and he sighed, biting his lower lip, thinking "Carer? Legal guardian?"

Greg froze, not quite sure what he should respond with. Honestly yes Sherlock did have a legal guardian, but from what John had told him about him he had to be a complete and utter psychotic nutcase, not able to look after Sherlock, or any kid for that matter. No kid, or grown adult, should have to deal with that. John had been completely right for not letting Sherlock go back there, and Greg wouldn't let him go back either "Doesn't have one." He lied.

"Well then he should be in foster care, and go live with a legal carer or something like that. Greg, he can't stay here."

"No, Ian." Greg grasped hold of the younger man's arm and clung to him like a lost blind man "Please Ian, he really can't go anywhere else, not right now anyway, he has to stay here."

Ian sighed, biting his lip and looking the teacher up and down, shifting his weight onto each of his feet, considering "Is it really that important to you that he stays here?"

Greg nodded imploringly, still keeping an almost painfully firm grasp on the DI's arm, almost doing it out of habit.

Gnawing the inside of his cheek with his teeth he tilted his head to the side "Ok, but jus until it's possible for you to find another place for him to go a live, somebody with a foster care license, yes?"

Greg paused "Where do you- I mean, where could you get a foster care license?"

"Well you would have to apply, but I could find out details for you if you wanted them."

Greg nodded enthusiastically.

"And you might want to get the kid some kind of counselling too." Ian added.

"Counselling, why?"

Ian shrugged "Could be a good idea, I'll recommend you to some good ones if you want that too."

"Thanks." Greg leaned in and kissed his cheek "You're perfect, you know."

Ian chuckled and grinned "You are, but thanks." He nudged him lightly "So how are you then?"

"I'm great." Greg beamed back at him.

..

Sherlock sat on the floor against the door, his head resting on the spot just below the door handle, his les stretched out into the rest of the room. He had both sleeves of John's warm jumper up by his elbows and a red biro pen in his hand. He loved this jumper, it was quickly becoming his new best friend; it was large and green and knitted from wool, it was so soft and warm he felt he could probably snuggle up inside it and sleep, plus it smelt like John, he tilted his head to his nuzzled his face into his soft jumper-clad shoulder. Around one of his wrists he had a tightly wrapped woollen bandage that John had helped him wrap earlier that day. Bandage had been John's idea, and Sherlock had to admit it was a good one, meant he didn't have to look at his awful gashy wrist and start triggering him, plus it was soft and every so often he'd bring it up to his face and rub it against his cheek. Scattered up his arms were a total of around sixteen butterflies in a multitude of different colours and ink, and the corners of his mouth twitched as he ran the tips of his fingers over them almost affectionately. Twiddling the pen in his hand he brought it back to the fresh butterfly he'd just drawn, it was a small butterfly, roughly drawn in red ink on the inside of his forearm close to the joint. He smiled at it and bringing the tip of the pen back down on his arm just above the butterfly's antenna, he wrote the word 'Greg'.

**Some Lestrade and Sherlock bonding time there, oh yes. **

**Anyway, sorry if none of you are fans of Dimstrade, I just wanted some because I love them. **

**Please review. **


	18. Angel Angel Down We Go Together

**Hi everybody **

**I've just realised that according to last chapter, Sherlock and Greg have been eating horse meat in their TESCO microwave meals (which they do eat, you can re-read and check if you want). I laughed so much when I realised that. Sherlock would have probably been able to deduce it was horse anyway. **

**This is quite a quick update by my standards, so I'm quite proud of myself. **

**Yeah, this chapter isn't that great or long, but hopefully you all like it. **

**Anyway, on with the chapter**

**Mick xxxxx**

Chapter 17 (wow 17 chapters)

Sherlock sat on the inside window sill, his cheek compressed against the sheet of glass as the icy winds smashed hard against the buildings, his whole body gradually becoming more and more numb. St Bart's had broken up for the Christmas holidays four days previous and in that time Sherlock had not done anything even the tiniest bit productive. He ate, he slept and lay around on random surfaces and played his violin almost unbearably loud; which he had quickly discovered that the rest of the people in Greg's four story building did not appreciate at any time... especially during the early hours of the morning.

He breathed rather heavily, his breath condensation on the cold glass of the window. He hadn't seen John in four days and already he thought that he would either go completely insane or that he'd die a long and painful death due to boredom. Or possibly both.

Sighing heavily, he absentmindedly reached up and began to sketch random shapes and lines into the foggy window. He surveyed his window masterpiece through bored sceptical eyes. It looks like Picasso's take on a monkey riding a bike, or just a very odd and distorted cloud. God, how bored was he that he was attempting to find some form of meaning in random squiggles.

Yes, he was going to go completely and utterly insane. He knew it.

Lazily lifting his energy-less body off the window sill and twisting around he slid down the wall until his legs gave way and he hit the floor with a muffled thump. Leaning his head against the wall and twiddling his fingers.

He. Was. So. Bloody. Bored.

There was genuinely nothing he could possibly do. Greg was out – though judging by the length of time he had been out he'd probably be back soon -, it wasn't like Sherlock actually had any friends that he could go out and have fun with like every other person at his school, social networking sites were just beyond dull and tedious, he'd read or scanned ever single book in the house already, none of which seemed interesting, if he played his violin Mrs Jones below them would no doubt strangle him half to death, and he couldn't go and visit John because he wasn't in school and it was like Sherlock could just waltz into John and Mary's house during the Christmas holidays for reasons they'd then have to come up with some form of plausible explanation for.

He had the butterflies that he had promised John would stop him cutting, plus his penknife was still under the bed in Jim's flat where he'd left it, and he didn't have any pills either. He desperately needed _some _form of stimulant. Anything. Just something to distract him – even for just a few minutes – take his mind of how mind numbingly bored and sad he was at this very moment. Did bored and sad go hand-in-hand with everybody, or was it just him? He had a three quarter full twenty pack of cigarettes in his school bag, (craving for nicotine was almost making him shake) or he could use a nicotine patch because he did have a pack of those too, that would work. And there was a six-pack of beer, two bottles of wine and at least one bottle of Smirnoff vodka hidden somewhere in the kitchen. Then again alcohol was a depressant so it might not make him feel any better, just distracted. He wanted to stay in control though, he didn't like it when he lost control, absolutely anything could happen.

Getting swiftly to his feet, jumping as if attached to a spring, he used his tick woolly socks to slide along Greg's wooden floor out of his room and across the tiny hall into the living room, like a stealth ninja.

After thoroughly combing the living room, cushions upturned, boxes shelves and draws emptied, even photographs taken off the walls, and then everything put back to the exact positions and proportions as before all within ten minutes, he gave up and fell limply down onto the sofa.

This was domestic hell in his mind. Using minimal effort he twisted his body around so he slid off the sofa onto the red carpeted living room floor, his limbs spread-eagle, staring up at immensely dull ceiling.

He heard the front door of the flat open and close, obviously Greg had at long last retuned, but he didn't look around, or in fact make any efforts to acknowledge him at all.

"Hi Sherlock." His maths teacher greeted him, sounding annoying cheerful.

"Hi." He responded fairly unenthusiastically.

"You ok?"

"Bored."

"I see." he heard Greg walk past him into the kitchen and presumably begin to unpack whatever he'd bought "Hey you know Sherlock, on Christmas Eve Sam's going to be coming round here to stay until Boxing Day."

"Kay."

Greg paused, poking his head around the kitchen door "kay? Sherlock isn't Sam, my son Sam. And you are kind of staying in his room."

Sherlock sighed heavily, sitting up and spinning himself around so he was sitting cross-legged on the red carpet "So where do I go while he's here?"

"Oh don't worry you can stay here if you want to, I'll just had to try and explain everything to Sam, and then we'll have to change sleeping arrangements, you could sleep on the sofa, or you could sleep in my room and I could sleep on the sofa." He paused, thinking "Or you could stay with Ian, I don't think he'd mind." He smiled encouragingly.

"You and Ian have been going out how long and you're already juggling a kid." Sherlock mused "You going to tell Sam about Ian or what?"

Greg's smile faltered slightly "I will tell him, I will."

Sherlock shook his head a little "If you're waiting for a 'right moment', then there isn't going to be one, there never will. Just tell him, get it over with, you're still his dad."

That was probably the best advice Sherlock Holmes had probably ever given "Thanks, I'll bear that in mind."

"I could stay with John." Sherlock mused, more to himself than Greg.

Greg's face dropped to one of concern "Sherlock, you can't stay with John, he's got his own family that he's probably going to spend Christmas with, and you can't go with him."

Sherlock glowered at the floor. As if he didn't know that already! As if it hadn't been nagging at him for weeks now, gnawing away at his thoughts and keeping him away all night. Why couldn't he stay with John if he wanted to? Christmas was the time you were supposed to spend with the people that you love most after all. For Sherlock that was John, no question about it. He crossed his arms across his chest and sat up straight, still glaring hatefully at the floor, looking like a stubborn child who wasn't getting his own way, or had just had his favourite toy taken away. This admittedly, in some sense wasn't that far from the truth.

Greg sighed and seemed to adopt the role of parent to the child Sherlock "Look, if John says that you and him can spend some time together over Christmas, or that you can stay with him then you can, ok? I won't try and stop you. But I mean, if you can't then it would be a good idea to have some kind of back-up plan, yes?" he surveyed the boy expectantly and when he did not respond, remaining completely still "We'll talk about it later." He turned back to his half empty shopping bag and resumed emptying its contense. Sherlock spotting anti-depressants which Greg quickly stashed away in his pocket. He could stash them, but he wasn't that cruel, Greg needed them more than he did after all.

Sherlock swivelled around on the spot to look out the living room window and the wet outside "Pathetic." He mused quietly to himself.

"What's pathetic?" Greg asked looking up.

"That." Sherlock indicated "It's a pathetic excuse for snow."

"It's not snow Sherlock, it's sleet."

"Exactly."

The corners of Greg's mouth pricked up and he chuckled slightly before resuming unpacking.

Sherlock tilted his head backwards and threw himself back down onto the floor in exasperation.

"What about your birthday?" Greg asked curiously, checking the labels on a can of cream of tomato soup to check the expirer date.

"What about it?" Sherlock responded, rather unenthusiastic at the prospect of a birthday.

"Well I mean, it's soon isn't it?"

"January 6th."

"Exactly, and it's sixteen, sixteen's a big important age."

"Not really, it's not going to impact my life that much in the long term future. And anyway," he sat up again "It doesn't really matter that much, it's just another day."

"The day you'll be sixteen." Greg added.

"I'll be sixteen of three-hundred and sixty-five days, it's not going to make much difference which day it starts."

"You'd be surprised." Greg paused "Well isn't it supposed to be like a massive deal or something, some kind of right of passage, or American thing like that...yeah?"

"Something like that. For girls and morons." Sherlock added.

"Well anyway, what do you want?"

Sherlock paused, turning back around to Greg, a puzzled expression on his face "What do I want?"

"Yeah as a present, you know, birthday present."

His brow furrowed "But I don't need anything."

Greg frowned, was anything he was saying getting through to this boy? Did he never get birthday presents? "I know, but it's your birthday and you get presents on your birthday. What do you want?"

Sherlock could think of a lot of things that he wanted, all of them involving John. He wanted John. He wanted to be able to be with John wherever he wanted for however long. He wanted to be able to walk down the street holding John's hand without anybody tutting or staring. He wanted all his problems to fly away and never return, he wanted his autism to just stop, he didn't want to have to deal with his mood swings anymore, or custody of him, he wanted to be able to live where he liked without any problems. He just wanted that.

He shook his head "No, can't think of anything."

"Well you think about it, yeah?" Greg smiled, the look on his face showing that he knew exactly what Sherlock wanted.

Sherlock nodded, his gaze dropping back to the floor "I will."

...

John sat at the table in his kitchen with pen in hand, his eyes scanning one of the year 8s homework without taking in a single word of it. He'd been making the year 8s homework for well over two hours now and he'd only got through about five books, maybe even less. He really wasn't great at this teacher lark.

He really needed to have a haircut, his hair was almost reaching levels of out of his control, he raked his fingers through it to feel the length. And come to think of it he needed a shave too, he hadn't shaved since school had broken up as there was no effort to look presentable during the holidays, and he absentmindedly scratched his stubbly chin, he'd do it tomorrow.

Thinking, the cogs in his brain ticking a lot slower than they usually did, he could almost see Sherlock's face swimming in front of his eyes. What could he do? He had to see Sherlock _somehow_. I mean it was Christmas, the time of the year for love and compassion and whatever else.

"Babe?" Mary called from the living room.

Babe? Why was she calling him babe? Nobody had called him that since like uni, and even then it had been as a joke. She never called him babe. What did she want? "Yeah?"

"I've been thinking that we should get married." She said, coming into the living room as she did, precariously balancing a stack of rather battered looking second hand cookery books he assumed she'd bought at some recent Christmas fate.

"We're already engaged." He informed her.

"I know silly," she gave him a playful smile "But I mean when we should get married."

Oh God "Oh... you have?" John asked, dreading her answer.

"Yeah, I mean, I want our baby to be born with us being married, don't you?"

_No. NO! _"Yeah I suppose so." She turned back to the books, instantly regretting his reaction.

"I mean we have been engaged for quite a long time now" – ten months? Was that a long time to be engaged? – "and wouldn't it just be great? To be married when our baby is born."

For any other kid maybe. John didn't have a clue what to do. Yes, getting married was the right thing to do, certainly the moral thing at least. Brining a kid into the world with happily married parents who both had stable jobs, raising that kid in happy safe environment, allow opportunities to come their way, teach them right from wrong and weak from strong, and make sure that they were always happy and healthy and be sure to mould them into becoming a just, moral, strong, independent person with a guaranteed valid place in society. But that just wasn't how things worked in the real world. Mary was living in a fantasy.

But really the thing was that when John imagined his kids he imagined them to be small and skinny with a mass of thick black curls and shockingly icy blue eyes. Those were his kids.

"John?" Mary asked, waving her five fingers in front of his diverted dreamy eyes "earth to John."

"...what? Oh...yeah, you're right."

She beamed at him "You're great, I love you."

"You too." He gave her a tiny smile and she quickly leaned down to peck his lips.

She got up and turned to go into the living room before she paused and turned back "Have you packed yet?"

John stared at her in confusion, raking his brains in an attempt to put some meaning to the question, trying to –as Sherlock would – deduce what she meant "Huh?"

"Well remember I said we'd be going to Devon to stay with my sister for Christmas, I did tell you." She added.

"You did?"

She nodded expectantly.

"Mary," John began slowly. And idea only just sparked in his head "are you sure that I should go?"

Her smile quickly dropped into a cynical frown "Yes." She said sternly "John we're engaged, and engaged couples do tend to spend Christmas together with each other's families."

"But, you know, me and your sister don't exactly get on " – this was reasonably true at least, Mary's sister had never liked John and he knew that it had been the cause of several rifts between the two sisters. He wasn't even sure what it was that she disliked so much about him, although every time she and him were forced to talk he had started to become more and more certain that he might have slept with a friend of hers some time before he and Mary had started going out. "And you know, what with school and everything, I'm really behind and I do need to do a lot of planning and marking for the new term." He paused, his breath bated.

She bit her lip looking slightly suspicious buy more or less convinced.

John stared at her expectantly, not wanting over do his excuse "And I mean, I was going to try and visit Harry this Christmas."

"I suppose." Mary mused, biting lightly on her bottom lip. She sighed "Alright," she gave in "But you own me big time."

"Absolutely, whatever you want, whenever you want it's done, yeah?"

She grinned a little "Yeah."

He reached out and graced his lips over her knuckles, and turning back to the year 8 books.

"And John?"

He turned back, anxious about what the conversation had in store "Yeah?"

"Do you think that it would be a good idea to tell our families? About the baby I mean."

He shook his head frantically.

"Oh." She looked disappointed "Why not?"

"Well only because we're not past the twelve week mark. It would be better to wait until then, just so that we know that everything will be ok."

Her smile quickly found its way back onto her pretty face "sorry, you're right, you're absolutely right." She leant down to kiss him "You're always right." She raised her hand to play with the hairs at the back of his neck, making his shudder "what would I do without you?" she mused playfully.

He shrugged "I don't know." And that was the problem.

She smiled "Ok, I love you." She turned away back to the living room, closing the kitchen door behind her.

"You too." John breathed after her before burring his head in his hands, guilt threatening to overwhelm him. He was selfish, that's exactly what he was. He was reckless and stupid and disloyal and just downright selfish. He'd ruined everything, and for what? Some boy?

He stopped dead.

Some boy?

No. He wasn't just some boy. He was _the _boy. The only one he wanted and the only one he loved wholly, without question or reason or doubt. Just love. Strong love, stronger than John had ever felt for anybody else ever, or ever would again.

Sherlock wasn't just some boy.

John hadn't thrown everything away for nothing. He had just jumped into the deep end and everything had just spiralled out of control. And he didn't have nothing, he had Sherlock, and Sherlock was all he really needed. He smiled fondly thinking of Sherlock. The boy with the curly hair and the high cheek bones who had the oldest eyes he'd ever seen. Brilliant, beautiful, genius Sherlock. His Sherlock.

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he found Greg's number. And checking quickly behind him to check that the coast was clear, he dialled it.

..

The phone rang loudly and without any warning, splitting through the silence and causing Greg to drop the cream of tomato soup in fright. Sherlock merely looking up at the thud of the can on the floor, apparently undeterred by the loud ringing.

"Hello?" Greg answered the moment he'd managed to compose himself and pick the phone up "Hi John."

Sherlock's head snapped round and he was one his feet next to Greg quicker than the speed of light, his eyes wide, gazing expectantly.

"It's for you." Greg handed the phone over to Sherlock.

"John?"

"_Hi."_ He heard John's voice down the phone sounding almost ecstatic _"How are you?" _

"Bored."

John chuckled "_Well you would be wouldn't you? So I was thinking, how about you come and stay at my house with me over Christmas?"_

Sherlock almost felt his heart skip several beats, he almost did a small jump of excitement "Really?"

"_Yeah." _

"But what about Mary?"

"_Oh don't worry about that, it'll just be you and me." _

Him and John...

"Yeah ok."

"_Great, I'll see you then. I love you." _

"I love you too." The line went dead as Sherlock turned smugly to Greg.

**Yeah, hopefully you all liked that. **

**Review please **


	19. Now My Heart is Full

**Hi guys,**

**Once again I apologise for this taking a rather long time, I've just had to do a lot of revision because I had to do three test which all go towards my GCSE final marks, do you actually realise how hard it is to speak German fluently for 5 minutes under pressure with no idea what they're going to ask you? Pretty bloody hard.**

**Anyway, yeah. And basically this chapter just took me a long time to write on its own. You guys wanted smut, so here it is, it's not the best in the world but it'll do. **

**Also I think it is the time to give an apology. I know that I am a bad speller, I always have been and I always will be, in fact I am also mildly dyslexic so it is quite hard to proof read as well because it looks scrambled anyway, though really it's probably just because I'm bad at spelling. Anyway, sorry about the constant spelling and grammar mistakes. **

**So, on with the chapter. **

**Love Mick xxxxxx**

**Chapter 18**

"I've had a bloody awful week." was the greeting John received at 7 o'clock on Christmas Eve, upon opening the front door. It was already nearly pitch black outside, the street lamps against the dark sky resembling ink blots, Christmas lights, Santas and candles decorating all the houses scattered along the street.

"Hi Sherlock." He grinned at the boy who stood in the doorway. Wrapped firmly up in what looked like a pile of warm clothing, coats, scarves, gloves, even a woolly hat squashing his curls down.

A large smile broke over the shivering boy's face "Hello." He leant up to quickly kiss his lover's cheek "How have you been then?"

John shrugged "Tired," he said honestly "I missed you." He hand creeping around to Sherlock's slim waist.

Moving closer to John "I've missed you too." He grinned mischievously.

The door barely had time to close before John had pulled Sherlock inside the house and practically slammed him against the opposite wall, his fingers knotting roughly in what could be seen of Sherlock's windswept curls, their mouths violently locking together. It was more like a fight that a kiss, teeth smashing together and tongues battling in each other's mouths for dominance, depriving their partner of air.

Fighting to pull out of the kiss John smiled fondly at the wide eyed boy, his jet black curls framing his white face perfectly "You need a haircut." He mused, ruffling them playfully.

"Oh, fine, thanks." Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Oh you know I'm only joking." He smiled pulling the boy into another practically rib cracking hug "How are you?"

"I'm happy now." Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by John's jumper-clad shoulder, returning the hug "You?"

"The same." John grinned "So," he pulled out of the hug, his fingers linking with Sherlock's "What do you want to do?"

Sherlock shrugged, gently dropping John's hands and beginning to untangle and unravel himself from the many layers of warm clothing that he had been wearing "Anything. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. I've got popcorn though, we could watch a movie or something, if you want?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows again, looking slightly amused at John's cliché ideas "Christmas movie?"

"Yeah, why not?" We could watch Love Actually, that's a Christmas movie."

"Ok sure."

Or, you know, we could kiss a little bit more?" John suggested.

"I like that idea best." Sherlock grinned, bringing his lips back to Johns.

Their mouths moving in perfect harmony, almost in sync with one another. John's lips were beginning to become a lot less of a mystery, almost as if he could map them out perfectly, he knew each spot that required a small nip or extra pressure only slightly enforced in order to receive a groan or a gasp from the older man.

Snaking his arms securely around Sherlock's slender waist, John lifted him and almost twirled him around. Breaking apart he took Sherlock's hand and guided him out of the hallway and into the other room, slamming their mouths back together and pulling him down onto the sofa, on top of him. Every sad thought, every hopeless moment that had been caused by their separation just seemed to add to the quickly building lust as their tongues danced.

Nipping and sucking lightly on Sherlock's swollen lips, John smiled to himself. He didn't feel lonely anymore when he was with Sherlock. Before they had met there had been a part of him missing, a very large part, a whole major piece of his life and his self missing, and now it was here – now he was here – He couldn't live without it, taking him away would be like taking one of his lungs away.

Sherlock stopped his whole body freezing.

"Sherlock?" John pulled his head away looking up into the boy's confused face.

Sherlock didn't answer, biting his lip.

"Are you ok love?"

The last word seemed to reanimate him a little and he shifted his gaze to John's face "You called me love?"

"I won't if you don't want me to." John added hesitantly.

"Oh no." Sherlock shook his head "I – I like it."

Smiling privately "Well then what's the problem?"

Biting his lip lightly and glancing thoughtfully about the dimly-lit living room, only just noticing the tiny Christmas tree, his brow furrowed "What am I?"

"Err... what do you mean?"

"I mean what am I to you? What are we?"

"What do you feel like?" sounding like a therapist again.

"I don't know." One of the few times Sherlock Holmes had probably ever uttered those words, and he didn't look to pleased with himself for it either. "I'm not just fun, am I?"

"W – what?" John could barely speak "What? No! What put that idea in your head?"

Sherlock shrugged, guilt setting in on his young face, wishing he'd never voiced it aloud "Sorry." He clambered off John and sat up on the sofa, crossing his legs like a child at primary school "Nobody cared enough to stay before."

John reached out to run his fingers across Sherlock's cheek, but he flinched away from him in fear, as if John had been poised to swipe him across the face "I care, and I'm here. Sherlock, I wouldn't be without for a second if I could help it."

The boy's lip twitched in a tiny smile "So, what do you want?"

"What do I want what?" John asked quizzically.

"Like involving us?" still seeing John's confused face he rolled his eyes "You know."

"What?"

"_Sex_, John."

"That was so un-subtle." John sniggered.

"Well?" Sherlock encouraged, looking expectant.

"I don't know, not today I don't think." He shuffled closer to Sherlock, placing his hand on the knee of Sherlock's crossed leg "I mean, you're not even sixteen yet."

"Why does everybody care so much about being sixteen? Which I will be in 13 days. And do you actually realise how many people in my year at Bart's aren't virgins?"

"It's different with us though. And anyway, do you realise that when you stop being a teenager I'll be 3 months off thirty."

"I know, but I don't care." Leaning up to quickly kiss his cheek "I love you. I'd let you do anything that you wanted to me."

"You would?"

He nodded, his calm demeanour failing him slightly.

John sighed deeply, chewing his bottom lip "well still, not right now. I'm not saying no, I'm just saying not right now, you understand?"

Another –rather less enthusiastic – nod.

"Hey," he nudged him "I didn't say we'd do nothing tonight, did I?"

Glancing up "that's true." He grinned.

"But, I mean, only if you'd want to –"

"I would, I would want to." Sherlock butted in before he could finish.

"Ok." He leant over to kiss the boy's cheek.

"But you know what I want?" Sherlock mused, nuzzling his head a little into John's cheek.

"What do you want?"

"I want some food. Haven't eaten since cereal at breakfast, and I'm fucking starving now."

"Jesus Sherlock, you could have said."

"I'm sorry." He grinned.

"Well I'll make you something."

Getting off the sofa, he held out his hand for Sherlock to take, which he did.

"So what do you want?" John asked, entering the kitchen and scanning the cupboards, turning his head around to Sherlock now sitting at the table "And I must warn you, I am not very good at cooking anything, like at all."

"That's cool, neither is Greg."

"So what do you usually eat a Greg's?" John asked, poking his head around the cabinet.

"Microwave meals, sandwiches, soup or pasta." He listed.

"Well to be honest love," – Sherlock getting a pleasant tingling sensation up his spine when he heard his new nickname- "it looks like it's going to be one of those things." Fishing around in the cupboard to find a cluster of cans "Minestrone soup ok?" he checked upon retrieving the first can he could.

"Yeah, ok."

Sherlock watching in fascination at John fiddling hopelessly to open the can and empty the sloppy red sauce into the sauce pan on the stove. It was cute really. "I've never been to a sleepover before." He mused.

Turning to him in bewilderment John chuckled "Sherlock this isn't a sleepover, 10 year old girls have sleepovers.

"But I'm still _sleeping over_." Sherlock added, attempting to look as mock innocent as he could.

John didn't respond, just giving the boy a playful glare.

Sniggering to himself and twiddling his fingers, Sherlock let his eyes wander about the room. Both times that he'd been here he hadn't quite noticed how... homey the room felt. The –most likely empty and just decorative - labelled spice pots all lined up neatly on the window sill above the sink, the cosy brownish redish décor and all the wooden surfaces. It was nice and all – it just wasn't right, it didn't quite fit. If he hadn't known that John lived here, he probably wouldn't have guessed. This house and John just didn't seem to correspond.

The rustic tomato-y smell wafted over and he got to his feet wrapping both his arms tightly around John from behind, resting his chin on the older man's shoulder.

"Hello." John smiled, running the tips of his fingers over Sherlock's knuckles.

"I love you."

"I love you too." John twisted his heard round to gently brush his lips against his younger lover's cheek.

"And this _is_ a sleepover." Sherlock added defiantly.

"Whatever you say." He grinned, turning back to the saucepan "Get me two bowls please, soup's almost done."

"Where are they?"

"Cupboard to the left of the one above the sink."

Obeying John bequest he fetched the two bowls. John taking them and emptying the soup –half in each- into them, handing one of them to Sherlock, who stood leant up against the opposite wall and shovelled whole spoonfuls of hot liquid in his mouth, discarding the drops that dribbled down his chin.

John smiled at the view, Sherlock Holmes eating. He could clearly remember the deathly Sherlock – the one from mere months ago who barely ever seemed to eat anything. The boy he had approached because he'd suspected that he had an eating disorder, the boy he had set out to help. That boy had been close to death judging by the way he looked, with a hollow face and sunken eyes, you could have seen every single bone and joint in his body; that boy had never smiled and had fresh cuts on his wrists every day. This boy was different; this boy was healthier looking, he was still thinner than most but more flesh clung to his cheeks now, he was no longer the skeleton that John had approached at the beginning of September, he smiled now – his stunning, breath taking smile -, and his arms were by no means clean, John knew that the bruises and scratches would eventually go, and that the many scars would fade, they maybe wouldn't fade completely, they might never do, but with time they would fade. This boy who had seen way too much for somebody so young, the broken boy, that boy was stronger now.

"John?" Sherlock waggled his fingers in front of John's face.

Breaking away from his dream state "hmm?"

"Why are you staring at me really weirdly?"

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"About me?"

"Yeah, you were just so different when I first met you."

"Is that bad?" Sherlock asked, looking worried.

"Oh no. No that's not bad at all. In fact that's good. How many months has it been now? 4, nearly 5?"

"Yeah, something like that." Sherlock leant up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"It's weird, you know." John wrapped both his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"I know." Pausing for a second, unsure weather to say anything "Mr Lestrade's going to take me to a counsellor soon." He added, half anticipating, half dreading the response.

"That's good." John said, lowering his lips to Sherlock's cheek to pressing a light kiss to it.

"It is?"

"Well, don't you think it would help you?" John asked.

"I don't know, apparently so though. They're gonna put me on Lithium or something."

_Lithium Carbonate, periodic symbol Li. Medically used as a mood-stabilising drug, most commonly to treat bipolar disorder, but also commonly used to treat Borderline Personality Disorder and Schizophrenia. However it is better used to treat mania than depression. When prescribed is seen to significantly decrease the risk of suicide in patients with bipolar disorder. Though having many advantages, Lithium can also cause tremors –most commonly in the hand - and clinical depression. _

"You'll be ok." John smiled, ruffling his curly hair affectionately "Believe me, I'm a doctor."

"No you're not."

"Well I still went to medical school, so fuck you."

"Yes please."

They both burst into small fits of giggles.

"But you will be, ok I mean."

"I guess."

"No, you know you will be."

"Fine, _I know."_

Leaning in to kiss him, Sherlock met him more than half-way, flinging both his arms around his teacher's neck, his tongue sliding into his mouth. Gripping each other frantically, hand s fumbling over each other's bodies in a haze of desperate lust. It was a messy kiss, teeth clashing, biting, and sucking, hair tousling, hands spreading in all directions. Whatever one did was mirrored with double the vigour in a fight for dominance. Stalemate.

Letting his lips grace down Sherlock's cheek, along his jaw and down his neck, burying his face there and holding him tightly in place with both arms, swirling kisses around the cold skin of his neck. His hands wandering about his body, the fingers creeping their way to his belt and unbuckling it in one swift motion.

Before he had time to register anything Sherlock found himself toppling back onto the sofa with his teacher on him, kissing him frantically, unbuttoning the large striped shirt he was wearing, his fingers sliding beneath the band of his boxers. Breathing rapidly increasing and beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He'd though about this a million times over in the past week they had been separated, and now here it actually was, and it made him feel dizzy and giddy and he loved it, it was even better than his fantasies.

John's lips feverishly left more trails of kisses down his younger lover's neck, latching them onto the boy's collar bones and running his tongue them causing a shirt intake of breath from the boy's lips. Heavily inhaling and exhaling Sherlock felt himself shudder uncontrollably and his teacher's hand found it's way further into his boxers.

Everything – all his surroundings – felt all fuzzed. There was no grace or elegance, just burning fiery lust clouding each of their minds with frenzied mist. He whole brain was just consumed by some unknown force, he couldn't remember where he was or how he had got there, he couldn't even remember who he was. The only thing that he knew to be real was John, John tracing light circles of kisses across his chest.

Every kiss and every touch just added to their hunger, the demand for more. There sheer _togetherness _just seemed to tip each of them over borderline insanity. Evry touch sending shock waves through their bodies. The perfection of this moment in the boy's mind was indescribable. It was just...

John locked their lips back in place, letting the tip of his tongue softly stroke the boy's teeth. Gently stroking the student's thigh John felt Sherlock's fingers knot in his short sandy hair. Peppering kisses down his cheek and jaw, his hand roaming about his lower body, beneath the folds of fabric he rubbed him gently. Sherlock's hips jerked a little, letting out a tiny groan. John rubbed again, feeling the building tension, ecstasy and lust all boiling over. Sherlock clung tightly to him, his finger nails almost splitting the skin, letting out a string of moans. Crying out, holding the older man's name on his tongue as his orgasm ripped through his body, gasping as his whole body shook. It took him a minute or two – his breaths gradually calming - to realise that he was on the sofa in John's living room, sweaty with his clothes hanging off him, his boxers officially ruined. How had he gotten here again? Hadn't they started in the kitchen? He couldn't quite remember exactly. The corners of his mouth pricked up in a tiny grin and he turned to John, nuzzling his head affectionately into the older man's shoulder and linking their fingers together.

John's breathing was heavier than usual and he stared up and the ceiling, a smile growing bigger each second.

"Well that was fun." Sherlock mused, receiving a rather painfully sharp playful jab in the ribs by John's elbow. "Ouch." He grinned, resuming nuzzling his head into John's shoulder.

"Oh you deserved it." John couldn't help but grin back.

"Well maybe you'll just have to punish me then." Sherlock suggested, an innocent look playing on his boyish features.

"You wish." John leant down to peck his cheek.

"i do actually."

"So what about that film then?" John asked, sitting up and tousling the boy's curls affectionately "popcorn? What do you want?"

"Cuddling?"

"That is definitely something that we will do."

"Excellent."

...

Sherlock appeared to be keeping his promise to get a goodnights sleep. He lay with his limbs drawn into his body as they usually were, his head resting gently on the pillow, all of his curls flowing out from his head in different directions, like black water. He was dressed snugly in –almost- new blue striped pyjama bottoms and a long sleeved grey t-shirt, Greg must had got them for him, though if they were brand new or hand-me-downs from Greg's kid, John wasn't sure. Sherlock lay completely still besides the momentous rising and falling of his chest as he breathed heavily in and out. His eyes were softly closed, his eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly, his mouth open only by a few millimetres; his cheeks gently flushed. He really did look like a child when he slept, there was a simplicity about it, that sleeping seemed to achieve him some form of peace, just a few hours break from his chaotic and painful life, a time where he could be anything he wanted wherever he wanted and not have to worry. John leant over to kiss his sleeping companions cheek, smiling down at him. He'd gone out almost like a light, which was unusual for him. They'd finished the movie, got into their clothes for sleeping, climbed into John and Mary's bed together, cuddled and talked for maybe half an hour, and he'd just fallen straight to sleep encased in his lover's arms. It had been nice to see. He'd just closed his eyes and drifted off, his breathing becoming heavier and his limbs gradually floppier.

Leaning back over, John planted another kiss on his cheek "Merry Christmas." He whispered with a tiny grin "I love you." But the boy just continued to sleep.

**Yep, hope that was ok. **

**Review please **


	20. The Loop

**Hello readers of fanfiction**

**How have all you lovely people been? **

**I feel quite cool at the moment, becuase this fic currently has 104 favourites and 208 followers, which is not only the most I've had on any fic, but the favourites is exaclty half of the followers, which me, being the very odd person that I am, am quite excited about. **

**Here is my latest chapter, and it's short this time, really it's just a crap little filler chapter, though there is some important stuff in it so look out for that. Yeah, I don't really like this chapter much, I got to about half way through and just considered not publishing it at all because I really wasn't that keen on it, I think the important stuff and the fact that if i scrapped this then I'd have to re-start the chapter which would take quite a long time is the only reason I'm keeping this to be honest. But anyway, I hope you enjoy this, and also I have a guest apperance from the lovely Mr Henry Knight, please let me know if you'd like him to be in it a little bit more, because if the majority do then I will write him in some later chapters, so yeah. **

**Anyway, enjoy. **

**Love Mick xxxxx**

**Chapter 19**

Sherlock had never liked waiting rooms, which was most proably because he wasn't exactly overly keen on waiting; the room just looked – and felt – extremely awkward, and there were always annoying health adverts with motivational catch phrases on them "_Progress Starts Here", " Brighter Future", "Take Control" _and what not, which Sherlock had never been keen on either. He wasn't exactly nervous about actually seeing the counsellor, he just wasn't exactly optimistically anticipating having to spill every detail of his whole life to a complete stranger, he struggled enough talking to the people that he knew and trusted about his life, lettleone somebody he'd never met before that was being paid to listen to teenagers with mental problems. Well he wouldn't exactly have to talk to this person about _everything _becaus here – for the prupose of not having to reveal that he had run away from his godfather's flat and was now living in the room on his maths teahcer's son – he wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

A nervous looking boy who was probably around a similar age to Sherlock himslef, who posessed a pair of ears rather larger than average came into the room and glanced around twitchily. He spotted Sherlock sitting awkwardly in the corner with a stack of health leaflets and mind-numbingly dull magazines full of celebrity gossip that Sherlock had never cared for either next to him. The large-eared boy gave Sherlock a small smile and a wave, to which Sherlock gave a tiny nod and lack of smile of aknowledgement in response.

The boy approached him causeously, as if Sherlock might suddenly do something violent or rash "Um.. hi." He said timidly.

Sherlock really didn't know what to say now, nobody had said that he was going to have to socialise with strange boys in the waiting room, regular conversation really wasn't his strong point, asperger's makes it very difficult "Hello." He responded in a monotone voice, still not smiling back.

"I –" the boy took a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself "I'm Herny... Knig... Henry Knight." He stuttered.

"I'm William." This being the name he and Greg had decided that he would go under while he came here. William was a simple enough name, relativly common, more common than 'Sherlock' in any case, though really most names were.

"Does anybody ever call you Will?" the boy – Herny – asked, placing himslef down a few seats away from Sherlock so as to keep as much personal space as he could but still engage in conversation.

"Sometimes."

"Um... can I call you Will?"

He gave a small shrug "If you want to."

"How old are you?" Herny asked curiously, shifting a tiny bit closer, still looking wary.

"I'm nearly 16."

"Me too." He gave a friednly smile, but upon seeing Sherlock's lack of smile in response, he stopped.

Glancing awkwardly at Henry, Sherlock wracked his brains for something that could at least spark a conversation "Do you like science?" _shit! _Why had he said that? He sounded like John when they'd first met '_What's your favourite colour?' _The though of John seemed to calm him down, and he glanced back up at Henry who was frowning, confused at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Science..." he trailed off probably sounding like a complete wanker.

Eyeing him rather oddly, though as if in slight ammusement, henry shook his head slowly from side to side "You haven't come here before have you?" Henry asked, sounding a little more confident, edging slightly closer to Sherlock.

"No, my dad thought it would be a good idea to come." It was easiest to just call Mr Lestrade his dad, it sounded the most believeable approach.

Nodding "I've been coming here for nearly two years."

He was almost intreging, he seemed like and average, normal, friendly-type person if it wasn't for how anxious he was, his eyes kept flicking around the room worridly as if there was something there that only he could see – or was just aware of – and he stuttered a little too, his words running over his tongue as if he was in a hurry to say them, and it was like they kept stumbling over each other. He did display most of the symptoms related to severe anxiety. Was that why he was here? Or something similar?

He gnawed thoughtfully at his bottom lip, narrowing his eyes to try and figure out everything he could about his new aquantance. He'd have to chance it "Why?"

"Because I'm ill." He said after a moment of silence.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged it of "It's ok... a -are you ill too?"

"I suppose I am." He sighed bitterly.

"It'll be ok," he gave him a small encouranging smile "And you don't have to worry about me judging you."

Why was he being so nice? "Thank you Henry."

"No problem." He smiled, shifting a little closer so they were almost at trusting distance.

A professional looking woman entered the waiting room, causing them both to jump out of their skins in shock. She spied their sudden change in movement and turned to them, giving Henry a fond little smile before turning to Sherlock "William, yes?"

He looked worridly at Henry who gave him an encouranging look, he truned back to the woman and nodded.

She smiled "You don't need to look so worried, do you want to come through?"

He didn't respond, just got to his feet, looking back to give Henry a last worried look, before following her out of the waiting room and down the hall to a vancant room.

Sherlock found that found that the moment he entered that he significantly disliked this room more than the waiting room. It was plain looking, with two chairs and a table with several folders perched precariously on it and a closed window which took up minimal wall space, most of the light coming from a dangling lamp that hung from the ceiling. Sherlock also couldn't help but notice a rather ominious set of emergence and assistance buttons strategically placed in the corner of the wall closest to one of the chairs, which was evidentally the woman's.

Obviously they were for if he completly flipped out and tried to kill somebody.

She sat down – as he had suspected – in the chair closest to the buttons – indicating for Sherlock to sit in the other, which he did after a moment's hisitation.

"Hello, I'm Dr Mortimer." She introduced herself.

_Mortimer. When shortened to Mort it meant 'death' in Latin._he thought to himself – then wished he hadn't.

"Hello."

"How are you feeling?" she asked, giving him a warm smile, her intention was obviously good but it still didn't help at all.

"I – I've been worse." He said, truthfully.

"How's everything at home?"

"Fine."

"Good and you live with your dad, don't you?"

"Yes."

Was there really a point in this? He'd just have to keep lying.

"And have you ever been in any form of therapy or therapy groups before? Or have you ever been on any medication? Anti-depressants, anti-anxiety or mood stabalizers?"

"I was on lithium for about a year when I was thirteen." He admitted, probably for the first time "But I stopped."

"Why did you stop?" she asked, beginning to take notes on a blank piece of paper.

"I had to, it made me sad all of the time."

"And have you ever been self-medicated since then?"

He didn't want to answer that one. Yes he had, for a very long time.

She seemd to pick up the truth from his silence, and made a small note on the page, attempting to be as descreet as possible. "Ok." She said, making a rather obvious full stop "Now, do you have anybody that you are very close to? Siblings? Friends? Girlfriend?" from his silence she seemed to pick up on his distain "Boyfriend?"

He gave a small, kert nod.

"And does your dad know about that?"

"Yes."

"Anybody else."

He shrugged.

"So how's everything for you at school then?" she asked, changing the subject rather quickly, putting her smile back on "How's your school work doing? GCSE's soon." She reminded him.

"It's good." He replied, in a montone voice, growing more uncomfortable by the second. He didn't like this place one bit. Why had Mr Lestrade insisted that it was the best thing to do? John had said it would help. He shifted rather uncomfortably in the chair so that he was barely even sitting on it, avoiding making eye contact with Dr Mortimer.

"Well that's good. How's your relationship with your peers? Any close friends?"

"No." He answered briskly "I don't have any."

"Why?"

"I don't need any."

She gave him a rather skeptical, non convinced look, her eyebrows forming a arch.

"Nobody likes me." He corrected himself.

"Oh I'm sure they do, you have to give them a chance, somebody's bound to make friends with you." Evidentially this woman knew absolutly nothing about teenagers "What about Herny? You and him seemed to be having a nice talk?" That was true, he supposed. But Henry wasn't like most people.

"So, what evidence do you have to say that nobody likes you," oh he could find plenty of evidence to suggest that, among with other things "Have you ever been a victim of bullying or abuse?" she asked, her face hardening as she did.

He nodded, hesitantly.

Her face became more sympathetic and she gave him a small smile "Do you feel comfortable talking about this?"

He shook his head, almost in a manic frantic fashion.

"Have you _ever _talked about it?"

"Not properly."

"Properly?"

"No." He corrected himself.

"Well, if you do ever wish to address the subject, then you should know that everything that either you or I say in this room – unless we feel is a necessary exception – will remain completly confidential. That is unless you with to discuss it with anybody else."

To this he had absolutly nothing to say. He wasn't even sure if she was execting him to say anyhting. Did people usually said 'thank you' right about now, after all that was probably the polite thing to do?

She gave him another one of her sickly sweet smiles.

"I..." he tariled off, his courage waning.

"Ok, well, how about I ask you maybe a few questions, and you could give me a nod, or shake your head, good plan?"

Nod.

"Excellent. Have you ever been bullied by your peers?"

Nod.

"Verbally?"

Nod.

"Physically?"

Nod.

"Have you ever been in fights at school or outside of school with your peers?"

Nod .

"Have you ever been attacked by your peers?"

Nod.

"Have you ever been attacked by a person that wasn't one of your peers?"

Nod – slower this time.

"By an adult?"

Nod.

"Have you ever been abused by an adult?"

Nod.

"Verbally?"

Nod.

"Physically?"

Nod.

"Emotionally?"

Slower nod.

"Sexually?"

He didn't move. Didn't even blink, just stared fixedly at floor. His jaw was clenched so tightly that every muscle in his face tightened painfully. His breathing came in shallow, gasping, uneaven breaths.

She paused, a dramaticallly softer look over takign her professional demenour "By an adult that you knew personally?"

Sherlock bit his lip, sucking harshly on the inside of his mouth, then shook his head slowly, from side to side. He whole body quivered as a horribly contorted and painful emotion seemed to take over his whole body, making him feel nauseated. His eyes prickled and he sat with balled fists that were clenched so tightly that his palms stung bitterly as his nails pierced the soft flesh, and his whole body was utterly ridged, stiff. His face completly void of all emotion, still glaring intently at the carpeted floor.

"William, would you like to contiune this session another time or...?" she leant over to him, her hand softly touching his knee.

He recoiled violently, flinching away from her as if she had treatened to srike him, drawing his limbs up into his body to shield his face away from her.

His eyes darted back around to her apologetic face and he gave a small nod.

**Really not proud of this chapter, sorry guys, hopefully I haven't all my beautful readers down. And I'm also really sorry for spelling or gramatical errors, only for some bizarre my spell check has stopped working, no spell check AND dyslexia is really not a good match. **

**So anyway, now you all have a rough idea of what happened to Sherlock.**

**Again, sorry. Review please. **


	21. Come Back to Jim

**Hello friends **

**Not a long AN this time, but just to say that my spell check is still broken, so again, sorry about that.**

**And also this was quite a quick update, so I'm quite proud of that, although I do seem to just be writing a load of filler chapters, it's probably starting to annoy you all. I promise that the next chapter will most definitly not be a filler chapter.**

**And also I just want to thank everybody for reading and reviewing and following and basically all of you, thank you, I love you all more than I could ever express in any metaphor **

**Enjoy!**

**Love Mick xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx **

**Chapter 20 **

6th January. It was the kid's birthday, the skinny black haired one that lived with Greg. Sherlock, wasn't it? Weird name, especially for a –now- 16 year old kid. Ian Dimmock sat back in his chair, absentmindedly chewing the lid of the biro pen in his hand. Why Greg was letting the kid stay with him in the first place, Ian really wasn't sure. But Greg was Greg, and he always had his reasons for everything, no matter how bizarre they were. Greg had even asked if Ian would go over later that day to spend some 'quality time' with his new lodger for his birthday. The kid himself, Ian could tell even from the little he knew of him, that he wasn't a bad kid, but that was really the extent of what he knew.

New Scotland Yard – despite it's prestegious reputation – was usually always crowded with all manner of people, though today it seemd quieter and Ian hadn't been called out once, which most people would find relaxing, but Ian found greatly adgitating, and he tapped his pen repetativly hard on the desk. He really needed Greg to calm him down right now, or some tea, tea wasn't exactly Greg but it was as good a substitute as was available. It was technically still lunch time, which being the friendless loner he was, he usually spent alone of with one of the receptionists.

A woman entered the office space. She wasn't exaclty pretty, but she had the features of somebody who could have been or had been pretty. Long dark hair scraped back from her bony face and held up in clips, she wore fairly masculine clothes that were most likely borrowed from somebody, boyfriend maybe? She appeared to be calm and collected and showed no signs of any fear, infact she looked relativly curious, peering around the office with eyes rather large in their sockets.

Not taking much notice of her, Ian resumed gnawing the lid of his pen.

She spotted him, and apparently on seeing him she had found what she was seeking because she made her way over to him, slowing as she approached his desk "Hello." She sounded relativly confident, in her greater London accent, as if she already had exactly what she needed to say rehursed so many times that it was etched into her memory "Mr Dimmock?"

He wasn't really surprised that much that she knew his name, she'd probably asked about him at reception, though technically it was still lunch break so usually the office would have said he was unavailable "Yes? Are you here to make a report?"

"Oh no." She threw him a twitchy smile that sent a wave of cold unpleasant shivers down his spine "No, I am here for personal reasons?"

"Personal reasons?"

She nodded "Yes, to do with your... _association _with Mr Gregory Lestrade."

"Greg?" how did this woman know Greg? He couldn't remmeber Greg ever mentioning any woamn anything like this one before.

"This is not a matter of_ extreme_ ergency, Mr Dimmock." She continued, clicking her tongue matter-of-factly on the last sylible of his name. "But it just... appropriate that it is addressed today."

"Um..." he started, having absolutly no idea where this sentance was leading "well, we can discuss it now if that's ok, um, lunch ends in..."

"I can't discuss it now Mr Dimmock, not here, but if you wouldn't mind, would you make yourself available at around 3:30, then we will be perfectly free to discuss the matter elsewhere, say over coffee?" she paused, smirking at his astonished look, and continued "Not like a date Mr Dimmock, I am already ver well aware that I am not your type." He gaze flicked over him again, studying him "Shame really."

Utterly speachless and gaping like an idiot, he inclined his head in a small nod.

She directed another fleeting smile in his direction "Very well, I will meet you jut outside the building at 3:30." She promptly turned on her heels to leave.

"Wait!" he called after her, his voice sounded rather horse and strangled, she turned back to him, viweing him with skeptical curiosity "I...um, I don't know you name?"

She smiled again "Adler." She informed him curtly "Irene Adler." And she turned to leave.

...

It was the last day before the Christmas holidays ended which meant that Mr Lestrade had been too busy all day to make a big deal out of 6th January even if he had wanted to. Of which Shelock was thankful, celebrating was just a pointless waste of time and energy that could be spend doing more interesting and important things, after all he still felt exaclty the same today as he had yesterday when he had been fifteen, nothing that needed celebrating really.

Nether the less he'd gone over to WHSmiths earlier that morning while Greg had still be too sleepy to notice, and spent some fo the £20 John had given him as Christmas money on a brand new copy of 'The Hobbit' as a present to himself from himself. He'd never given Tolkien a chance before, but he knew that John loved the book, so he figured that he'd give it a go and he was already very glad that he had, he was nearly a third of the way through.

"Hobbit?"

Sherlock jumped, looking up to see Greg leaning against the door frame "Maybe." He mumbled defensivley.

Greg grinned "I've heard it's good, I've never actually read it myself."

"Right." Sherlock made a rather unessesary fuss about turning the page to indicate that the conversation was now over.

"I've got you something." Greg continued as if Sherlock hadn't said anything.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, surveying his teacher "You didn't need to, you know."

"Yeah I know, but I wanted to." Greg argued, his face reddening "I mean, you only get one sixteenth birthday, right?" he reached into the shopping bag he was carrying, and averting his eyes from the teenager he produced a small box and offered it to Sherlock, who reached for it cautiously "Sherlock, it's not a bomb."

Pursing his lips and taking the box in his hand, which he noticed was unwrapped, he examined it "Mobile phone?"

"Yeah," he said rather too quickly "Sorry it's not wrapped, it's just that I'm absolutly shite at wrapping, you can ask anybody they'll agree." He directed a quick nervous smile in his direction "But yeah, so I figured that you could call or text John or something in your own time now and you don't have to constantly use my phone."

Sherlock couldn't quite control the grin that crept up onto his face "Um... well thanks, I guess."

"Hey, you're welcome, and by the way I invited Ian over for dinner tonight." He made to go, but turned back, adding "And I've got Ben & Jerry's, becasue I know that _all _teenagers like that no matter what."

"Thanks dad." Sherlock answered without thinking, turning back to his book.

Greg paused, stunned. What had he just said? No, that couldn't be right? He was halfway turned to leave the room, his hand resting on the doorframe, so it would look odd if he turned back. With as little movement as possible, he shifted his gaze back to the boy in the room who was also frozen with his eyes fixed not on the words on the page nor Greg, but resolutly in the opposite direction, clinging onto his book as if for dear life.

Did he really mind that much if Sherlock had called him that?

He exhailed deeply "That's ok." And he turned, grinning widely.

...

3:35 and she wasn;t there. Had she even been real, or had she just been so bizarre figment of his tired or bored imagination? He shivvered from the cold, drawing his coat up closer to his body as the vicious merciless wind blew wildly about his shaking body, he blew into his fists in a rather unsuccessful attempt to warm his palms.

2 minutes and that would be it, he was too cold to care about what she had to say to wait outside much longer than that.

"Hello Mr Dimmock." She must have crept up on him from behind because he hadn't heard her approach at all, and he delicate silky voice caused him to nearly jump out of his skin. Well if it turned out that she wasn't real, she was definitly a phantom.

"Ian, please." He answered after finally regaining some form of dignity, though still mildly stunned.

She smiled "Well, then, Irene, Ian." She introduced herself, turning signally with a flick of her head for him to follow her, which he did rather hesitantly, making sure to walk a few steps behind her.

There was a coffee shop only a few minutes walk from th office, of which Ian was 90% sure was their destination. She didn't say a word, not that he really expected her to, just walked passivly on in a coat that he noticed was a rather expensive designer brand, made for a male owner.

Upon reaching the cafe, in an attempt at being polite he opened the door for her, mumbling something about 'ladies first' as he did, which was met by a rather genuine king smile and a small thanks.

They sat at one of the corner tables, furthest from the door and windows so as to be as warm as possible, and ordered a pot of tea, and sat in rather awkward silence until it came. She had taken the coat off –again what he was assuming was the property of her boyfriend – and he could definitly conclude that she was wearing mens clothing, and expensive looking mens clothing at that, crisp and clean and fit to a slim build.

"So, Miss Adler?"

She nodded, sipping her tea innocently.

"Um... you wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Ah yes." She tilted her head slightly, surveying him with curious eyes. He gaze made shivers run down his spine to the point that it was even uncomfortable to look directly at her "What do you know of the young man that lives with you're... partner?"

What, the kid? Was that why she wanted to talk to him? "well, what do you know about him?"

The corner of her mouth twitched rather unhumoursly, she almost looked relativly impressed "Well, let's just say that me and his father go back, yes?"

"I thought he didn't have a father." Ian stated, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

She smirked "Well done, you know more than I though."

Huffing impatiently, he continued "You're not related to him are you?" from the little that he'd seen of the boy he was almost certain that him and this woman were not related, which was proved correct when she shook her head.

"No, but tell him," she leaned closer, clicking her tongue and beckoning for him to do the same , he threw he a skeptical look which she appeared to find ammusing "Tell him that I said 'hi', yeah? Tell him Irene said 'hi'." His brow furrowed and she grinned gleefully at his confusion "and tell him that Sebbie misses him too." She continued "And tell him that Jim wants him to come home, or maybe he'll just have to tell Myke that he's not there anymore." She tutted, shaking her head from side to side in a morbid commical fashion, and shrugged her shoulders.

Ian gazed at her, his eyebrows mashed together, absolutly dumbfounded, without even the faintest idea of what the hell she was talking about.

She gave him another mischevious smile. There was something about her smile that just made him want to avoid her, there was just something... explosive about it. This woman was dangerous. She took one last sip from her tea cup, and got to her feet, swinging her coat elegantly over her shoulder and making the leave.

"Wait!" he called after her for the second time that day, and she turned back, remainign silent though with a quizzical look on her firery features "Who- who are you?"

She smirked down at him "Oh Mr Dimmock, I've already told you everything that you need to know from me." She shrugged in a mock-apology "Ask Shirley, although I wouldn't bet on either you _or_ your boyfriend getting a single word out of him about me." She paused "He's like that, doesn't much, Shirley. Although" she added thoughfully "you might get something out of Mr Watson." She turned to leave again, but paused momentarily "And while we're on him. Tell Johnny Boy to give the kid a kiss from Jim." And without another word, she flicked her dark curtain of hair to the side, and glided away, leaving Ian more confused than he had been before.

**I know, this chapter is much too short.**

**Irene is such a fun character to write **

**Yeah, so hopefully you all enjoyed this chapter **


	22. Dial-a-Cliché

**Hey guys, **

**So this was a quick update, quite proud of myself for that, I'm trying to do quicker updates from now on, but no promises. But my spell check is working again so that's very good **

**And also for some strange reason I don't think anybody was notified about the last 2 chapter, so that was a pain, hopefully this one will work normally, if it doesn't I think I will become rather angry **

**This is not a filler chapter, and the porn is back, so yay. Enjoy! **

**Love Mick xxxxxxx**

**Chapter 21**

John officially hated his job, honestly, if school wasn't the only place he got to spend time with the boy he loved then he probably wouldn't even bother getting out of bed in the mornings. It was the fourth week back now and he'd had to set up 2 alarm clocks by the side of his bed just to get him up, much to Mary's utter disgust. Dropping out of med school so that he could teach a load of pocky rowdy teenagers about biology would have been the worst decision of his whole life if he hadn't met Sherlock because of it. Whosever book he has marking now was so utterly mind numbingly stupid that it physically made him want to bash his own head repetitively against the kitchen table.

Hearing the front door open and close he buried his face in his palms and yawned rather unnecessarily loud.

"Hey John." Mary greeted him, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of his head.

"Hi." He responded in a monotone voice, bawling his fists to rub his closed eyes.

"You ok?" She asked, not sounding overly concerned, like she was just asking to make conversation.

"Tired." He answered, which was truthful enough, he was utterly exhausted, on top of everything else he hadn't exactly been sleeping like a log.

"Shame." She said, sitting down next to him "How about you and me go up to bed?"

John suppressed a groan, he knew exactly what she was implying there and it was exactly the opposite of what he needed right now "No, I've got too much work."

Her face visibly dropped "You always have too much work." She muttered, though not really making much effort to disguise the bitterness in her voice.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he snapped before he could stop himself.

"Oh nothing, nothing." She replied, still sounding bitter, getting up and moving into the other room.

"Mary." He groaned, getting to his feet and following her "We need to talk about this."

"Talk about what John?" she snapped back at him, spitting venom "All we ever seem to do is argue now, I can't even have a proper conversation with you anymore. What happened to you John?"

"Nothing's happened to me!" he argued defensively.

Rolling her eyes "Something did," she glared angrily at him, her eyes burning "You've changed so much ever since you started working at that bloody school!"

"Well I'm not exactly thrilled about my job either, but I have to make a living for us, Mary. Money doesn't exactly make itself does it?!"

"Ugh! Yes John, I'm aware of that. But that's not what's important here."

"What is then?!"

"US!" she exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing both her arms up in the air, never taking her burning gaze off him "But _you _don't even care about that!"

"I do." He hissed.

"No, no you don't." He gaze softened ever so slightly and she looked at him apologetically "You know, sometimes I think that I don't even know you that well anymore."

"Mare..." he reached out to her, but she recoiled, the anger returning to her face.

"No! Don't just call me by my nickname and think that that magically makes everything all better, it doesn't work that way John!"

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, retreating his hand.

"That's it?" she demanded, throwing her arms up into the air for a second time "Sorry doesn't magically make everything better either John." He sighed, taking a deep breath to steady herself "I mean, do you even want this baby?"

"That is ridiculous," he scoffed, annoyed himself now "Of course I do, and you should know that."

"Oh really?" she glared sarcastically "Well then grow up. Your kid needs a father_ not_ a playmate!"

The harsh words hit him like a tonne of bricks "Oh my God." He groaned, running his fingers through his hair "No, no, I'm sorry, I can't do this right now." He turned.

"Where are you going?" she demanded, though there was remorse hidden in her voice in amongst the anger, following him back into the hall "It's nearly bloody half nine."

Throwing on his coat, he turned to see her angry face "I'm just going to Greg's ok." He turned back away from her, not wanting to face her angry bitter expression, and left the house, adjusting his coat as he did to lock as much body heat to himself as he could. But of course, she was right, and he deserved everything she threw at him, he deserved it all times a thousand. He rightly should be mocked and yelled and screamed at for everything he had done. After all _he _was the one who was cheating on her, not the other way around. He was the one that lied, and the one that kept too many secrets. He was the one that would probably mess up his kid's life. Why would want a father like him? One that would could never be good enough for anything.

Greg's house was actually quite a bit closer to John's than Baker Estate was, so it took considerably less time to walk there. It was much too late for John to just knock on the door and expect for a suspicious Greg, who was probably just as tired as he was, to just let his college into the flat and spend the night sharing a bed with his 16 year old unofficially adopted son.

Sherlock's bedroom window was around the side of the house on the second floor. How was he supposed to get Sherlock's attention now? Rolling his eyes and feeling like he was in the middle of a ridiculous clique, he dug his hand into his pocket for lose coppers. Throwing the coin up it only missed the window by a couple of centimetres "Damn!" he cursed under his breath, digging around for another coin, producing another small copper coin and tossing it up, this time it made contact, hearing it make a satisfying loud clink against the glass, and in a matter of seconds Sherlock's face appeared at the window, spotting him and poking his head out.

"What the _hell _are you doing?" the boy demanded, looking greatly amused by his shivering older lover on the ground.

"Hello Rapunzel." John grinned up at him "This is so cliché it actually physically hurts. Can you let me in please?"

"Sure." He chuckled "But why are you here?"

"I'll tell you when I'm not freezing my arse off outside." John added.

"Ok, ok, I'm coming." His face vanished from the window, and John made his way back around to the front of the building, waiting by the front door.

It took Sherlock around 30 seconds to reach the other side of the door, stumbling slightly through the dark hall way in his ratty pyjamas, only wearing worn grey socks on his feet. He threw himself into John's arms the moment he could filling all the space between them and stumbling in his socks out over the doormat.

"Hello there." John couldn't help but smile, planting a wet kiss on the top of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like a greeting but was inaudibly muffled by John's coat.

"Is Greg home?"

"No."

"No?" John demanded, pulling out the hug to hold the boy at arms length "No? So I did that whole getting attention through the window thing when I could have just rung the doorbell?"

Sherlock smirked and nodded, his rare mischievous glint in his eye shining brightly "Yeah pretty much."

"You're evil." John informed him matter-of-factly, before leaning forward to steal another quick kiss "So you've got the house all to yourself then?"

"I do." Sherlock grinned, letting his lips gently grace over the skin of John's neck. When he next spoke though his voice was quite different, the flirty joking teenage tone was gone to be replaced by a much more serious, grave voice beyond his years "Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"Is it about your counsellor?" John asked. Sherlock had never actually gone into details about what he talked to his counsellor about; he had only gone twice after all. Both times John had noticed a significant change in his attitude to just about everything, he was always more solemn and resolute and significantly more pessimistic and easily aggravated after going there, he didn't smile as much either, and when he did he never meant them, he smiled for the smile's sake, and he stayed silent for much longer periods of time that normal, just gazed into space mostly; usually within a few days he perked back up and was assumed his regular attitudes and habits. John had deduced that maybe questioning Sherlock about it wasn't a brilliant idea, so he usually did his best to avoid the subject, though he would like it, he didn't expect Sherlock to talk about it. And either way, when Sherlock did talk about it, he never talked about what actually happened between him and the doctor, he only really talked about the friend he'd made from the waiting room, Henry his name was. It hadn't taken Sherlock that long to deduce that Henry was schizophrenic, resulting in suffering from severe anxiety. It was nice, really, that Sherlock had somebody like Henry that he could talk to about the things that were bothering him, somebody who wasn't an adult or a doctor or a judgemental classmate, Henry was somebody who was similar to Sherlock.

Sherlock inclined his head to mean yes, and taking John by the hand he pulled him inside the building, keeping a step ahead of him as he guided him back up to Greg's flat, the door of which he had left slightly ajar.

John hadn't actually been in the flat very many times, in fact he'd only really been in it a total of around 3 times, it never appeared to change, apart from in Sherlock's room. The first time John had visited him here the room had looked like a guest bedroom for somebody only staying one or two nights, with all of Sherlock's clothes and belongings stacked up in a pile that was separate from the rest of the room. Now however, the room was most definitely Sherlock's own, it even looked like he'd made a sloppy teenage effort the clean it. Stacks of books borrowed from the library were apparently being used as furniture, school textbooks and equipment strewn across the room along with newspapers and other tings Sherlock would deem to be useless. John smiled fondly at the familiar skull perched on the bedside table.

Sitting down on the edge of the unmade bed together, John looked at him expectantly.

"You remember at the hospital –" John felt his hands twitch rather abnormally a the unpleasant memory of Sherlock in that hospital bed that he'd tried so hard to suppress as much as possible – "You asked me what happened to me when I was ten?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Why did you ask that?" Sherlock questioned, his face void of all expression.

"I heard Jim and your bother talking, they said something happened." He admitted.

"Did they say what it was?"

John thought back, trying to remember as much of the conversation as he could "No..." he said after a while "um, well Myc- your bother said that you weren't likely to forget it, and Jim said that it wasn't his fault, that he didn't know that _they _would do that."

Sherlock just looked at John, chewing his lip apprehensively.

"It's something to do with Jim, isn't it?"

"Kind of." He paused again thoughtfully "Do you think you might know?"

"I have a theory." He admitted, Sherlock gesturing with his hand for him to elaborate "Um, well, I figured that it was a pretty big thing, and that it was something that causes a lot of pain to think about, so it's got to be some kind... ?" he trailed off, dreading if he was right.

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just glanced up into his lover's eyes, and there was a desperate sorrow in the crystal blue that no sixteen year old boy should ever be forced to feel. Words weren't needed to tell John he was right. John could feel his blood boil as anger threatened to overwhelm him. How could somebody – anybody – do something like that to a ten year old boy? It breached the very line of morality. He swore on everything he held dear – which incidentally was mostly Sherlock - that if he ever came across whoever had done _that _to the brilliant boy before him, he would kill them without a second thought. Before he could register what he was doing, his arms were full of the boy, holding him so tightly in the embrace that he was probably in danger of suffocation "I'm here." He whispered, pressing another kiss to the top of his wild curls "I swear, that I will make sure that you never have to go through anything like that ever again." He also growled the words his voice sounding threatening and sharp, harsh even. He wasn't sure how long they sat there, just wrapped around each other, slinging to one another as if the world was falling in, minutes, hours. It didn't matter, what mattered was that he could let a lonely and scarred boy know that he loved him like nobody had ever loved anybody else.

Slowly he felt Sherlock yawn against his shoulder, and regretfully released him from the hold, pressing another kiss to his hollow cheek to let him lay down, curling up like he usually did when he slept, in a tight close knit ball, his knees tucked up under his chin.

Shiftily following his lead, John lay down beside him, draping his arms over his body and moving to spoon against him, his front to the boy's back and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck "I love you." He whispered. He hadn't even been planning on saying it, it had just slipped out more or less completely unexpectedly.

"I love you too." Sherlock curled his bony fingers over John's hand which had been resting close to his stomach, and dipping his head to gently brush his lips again the older man's knuckles.

John fought off the urge to close his eyes and drift away into peaceful sleep, he was far from eager to close his eyes. The very thought that all the suffering that he had caused, even on top of everything he had gone through before hand, Sherlock still loved him was enough for him to die tomorrow a happy man. He wanted to remember them just like this, just as they were in that very moment in time, in that second; warm and safe and together, the only way that it should be, with nobody to tell them it was wrong. He could just lie there forever and not have to worry about anything.

He must have fallen asleep not long after that though because he felt Sherlock stir slightly, shifting his body to snuggle against John, the dim February morning sunshine just beginning to creep through the slight crack in the curtains. He felt Sherlock's warm body against his own and just closed his eyes again, capturing the moment, banking it for a time when he might need it to keep him sane, when the kid's at the school were driving him absolutely insane, or when Mary decided to pick another fight.

The student stirred again, twisting his head around for a 'good morning' kiss.

"Morning." John greeted him.

"Hello." The boy smiled fondly "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, you?"

"Yeah," he mused, his gaze wandering. He had slept well, better that he had in a very long time in fact. He could remember when he was ten he would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, and sit up rocking back and forth until morning, he'd gotten so bad that eventually one night Jim had just come into his bedroom and carried him into the other bedroom, he'd slept in Jim's bed after that for nearly a whole year. An 11 year old boy still sleeping in his parent's bed. That was when it had just been Jim and Irene, he would curl up between them, and sometimes even cuddle up to them, Irene hadn't liked it that much but Jim didn't mind. He had stopped when Seb had started coming over, reverting back to his own bed, and the nightmares were less frequent. Now, talking to John, it felt better, like a great weight that had been pressing down on him was now lifted, what had previously been constricting him was now gone, he could breath properly for once "John?"

"Mmh?" John replied in acknowledgement.

"Do you _really _love me?" he just had to check, just had to make sure it wasn't all a magical elaborate fantasy.

"Oh Sherlock," John gently ran his fingers through the soft curls that flopped over his forehead "I love you like... like I don't even know, I can't even explain how much I love you."

Before he could register either his or John's actions, he didn't even know who started it, but they were kissing again. It was a messy, demanding, desperate kiss, John taking complete control, but the dominance quickly bled away, all of the worries and fears and thoughts that had previously been racing around Sherlock's head just seemed to filter away into meaninglessness, leaving sweet black nothingness. Kissing John just filled him with an ecstasy that no other action could ever bring. He never wanted to kiss or be kissed by another person for as long as he lived. Screw the rules, and screw anybody that opposed them, they could all go sit in hell for all he cared. John brushed his tongue against Sherlock's bottom lip, begging for entrance, which Sherlock granted instantly, bringing his hands up to twist his fingers into John's hair "I want you." He hissed against John's lips.

Something broke. All of John's control just broke away as months of suppressed yearning and longing shot to the front of his dizzy mind. His hands roaming around Sherlock's body, finding their way under his oversized pyjama shirt to caress the bare skin of his chest; his lips abandoning Sherlock's mouth and trailing over his jaw to latch onto the crook of his neck, his teeth gently nipping the pale sensitive skin, smiling at the rather satisfying throaty groan that emitted from Sherlock's lips. John's head dipped down, pressing kisses through the matted cotton of Sherlock's shirt, down his chest and stomach, swirling his tongue slowly and deliberately around the boy's rather prominent hipbones. His eyes darting back up to meet Sherlock's, who gave a tiny nod. And with the help of Sherlock's arched back, he slid the elasticised pyjama trousers down to mid thigh. Sherlock gripped tightly to the blankets surrounding his head with his fists, his brain too melted by arousal and lust to feel embarrassed about his exposure, groaning roughly as the cold air hit his skin as John's fingers were softly traced patterns along his inner thigh. Groaning and involuntarily jerking his hips, the action causing the tips of John's fingers to gently grace over his shaft, the little contact still sending shock waves of pleasant shivers down his spine.

Without waiting another second, John took him in his mouth, slowly at first, lips tentatively sliding over the head, tongue gently caressing the shaft. It felt odd and alien, but not unpleasant, far from unpleasant, in fact it felt irrevocably _wonderful_, and it took all his remaining willpower to stop himself from coming undone right there and then, his breathing instantly becoming shallower as he fisted the sheets around him, another moan of ecstasy escaping his lips.

Working his mouth along the boy's cock, swirling his tongue at the tip, satisfied by the string of course moans from Sherlock when he did.

Sherlock gasped, becoming more undone with every slide of John's mouth, until the white hot tingling shot through his whole body, groaning as he felt himself pool in John's mouth, he fists gripping so tightly to the sheets that his knuckles were white, the older man's name on his lips, pleasure shaking him to the very centre of his being. Raising his head just in time to catch a glimpse of John swallow, unsure whether he found the sight absolutely disgusting or utterly erotic, a grin creeping over his lips all the same.

John was fairly breathless as well, pulling himself upwards and burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, mumbling indistinctively about how he adored him.

Panting still, Sherlock twined their fingers together, twisting his head around to plant a kiss on John's forehead which was covered in a thin layer of sweat "I love you. That was... amazing." For one of the first times in his life, he was almost speechless.

"You're amazing." John whispered, his voice only slightly audible "When's Greg going to get back?" he wandered aloud, remembering that this was Greg's flat.

Giving a small, nervous laugh, Sherlock pressed another kiss to John's sweaty forehead "In about an hour."

Grudgingly, John pulled himself away from Sherlock and sat up. Realising that he was still in the same clothes he had been wearing the previous night when he'd arrived, wiping his face with the back of his hand "I should probably think about getting going then." Greg did not want to know that he'd slept in Sherlock's bed, and especially not the rest of it.

Catching him in a firm hold, Sherlock kept him stationary "You can go in 50 minutes. Stay? Please?"

"You will be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes, you really will." John informed him flippantly, grinning and bringing their mouths back together.

**I hate the word 'cock' I actually physically hate it, why can't there be better words for smut?! **

**Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this. Reviews much appreciated **


	23. Will Never Marry

**Hey guys**

**I genuinely feel quite proud of myself for updating this chapter so quickly considering the circumstances, well basically I've just had all of my practice exams these last two weeks so I've been revising loads and I still managed to upload pretty quickly. Basically that's all you guys really need to know so yeah. I love you all; right now I feel the need just to thank you all for your continued support for this little story of mine. Thanks guys, you're all amazing! So yeah, enjoy! **

**Love Micky xxxxx**

**Chapter 22**

Taking a long hard drag on the cigarettes clamped tightly between his lips, Sherlock suddenly felt a rush of guilt about how John might react if he saw him smoking. Truthfully he'd never said or promised anything about quitting, but he had been cutting down one cigarette at a time, occasionally stealing the odd nicotine patch from Greg's kitchen. He sat, rather elegantly placed, on a low wall about a hundred yards from the school gate, his last lesson had ended about twenty minutes ago now and there were only a few students still milling around waiting for a bus or a friend or parents. The cigarette was only half burned out but he already felt absolutely wretched for it. He'd promised John that he wouldn't do any drugs anymore, and a promise made to John, in Sherlock's mind, was sacrosanct. Studding the butt on the wall he flicked it away from himself, spreading his arms out with his palms still resting on the hard brick and throwing his head back to look up at the oddly clear sky. The weather had picked up dramatically since that fateful morning that John had spent with him in his bedroom at Greg's, so much that it almost resembled spring time. Pathetic fallacy, that's what it was called, when the weather mocked the mood, though in reality it was just a convenient, ironic and borderline amusing coincidence.

"Oi!"

Sherlock didn't even need to turn to see who it was "Anderson," he greeted the faceless voice, bored sounding.

"Hi Sherlock." The other, less familiar but still recognisable, voice of Carl Powers greeted him in return. Carl Powers was one of the very few people at Barts that were actually close to liked Sherlock. They had been friends in primary school when Sherlock had first moved to London, and if Carl hadn't made friends with Anderson and his _type_ at the beginning of year 7, Sherlock guessed that they still might be friends to this day. But of course, Anderson had to exert his influence. In all honesty Sherlock did like Carl, as everybody else in the school did, he was something of a sports god to the students of Barts and excelled in everything especially swimming which he was particularly good at, and he wasn't a complete arse hole like most of them either. "What are you doing?" Carl asked, leaning up against the wall and looking up at Sherlock, not sceptically like most people would, more curious, almost sounding genuinely interested in what his former friend was doing.

Sherlock shrugged "Killing time." This being, for once, was entirely true.

Anderson began attempting to climb the wall also, clumsily hauling himself up to plonk himself significantly ungracefully next to Sherlock.

"What do you want Anderson?" Sherlock addressed him, beginning to get annoyed.

"What, can't we have a conversation?" Anderson sneered, sarcasm dripping from his every word "And you can actually call me by my name you know _Sherlock._" He added, emphasizing each syllable Sherlock's own name.

"What do you want _Alex_?" Sherlock repeated.

"Just a chat."

"Why?"

"Because you and me haven't had a little heart to heart in a long time." He sneered.

"Alex." Carl protested, hauling himself up onto the wall to sit on Sherlock's other side "We can talk, can't we Sherlock?" Carl encouraged him.

"Are you two doing some kind of bet or something?" Sherlock questioned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"You tell us, you're the one that does all that... mind reading shit." Anderson sniggered,.

"Deduct-"

"Shut up Alex!" Carl shoved his shoulder, though more playfully that to cause any harm "leave Sherlock alone."

Grinning Anderson continued "And where's Mr Watson anyway?"

Sherlock froze, _shit_, his eyes flicking around to see Anderson grinning like an idiot at him – not unusually. He couldn't know, could he? No, of course he couldn't, his merely talking lowered the IQ of the whole class. Panicking, Sherlock tried to look as nonchalant as he could under the circumstances, flicking his hair out of his eyes and looking away "How would I know where Mr Watson is?"

Carl looked just as confused as Sherlock felt, his gaze moving from Sherlock to Anderson and back again in quick succession, his brow furrowed.

"What?" Anderson questioned, a smug look on his stupid face "You're like always in his classroom, he's like your only friend-"

"Sherlock has friends!" Carl piped up defensively.

"No I don't." Sherlock shook his head, for once he and Anderson agreeing on something.

"Exactly." Anderson mocking flicked him on the side of his head.

"I don't want to talk to you." Sherlock informed him rather blatantly "What are you here?"

"Oh come on Holmsie, can't we talk?" Anderson grinned, mock pouting.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock gave up, there was no real point in attempting civilised conversation with this boy, turning to Carl on his other side "Is he like this with everybody?"

"Yeah pretty much." Carl's moth quirked un-humorously and shrugged as if to say that that was just the way it was.

Sherlock scoffed, why did everybody like this boy? Were they all insane? They just had to be, only possibly explanation.

"But seriously, what's the deal with you and Mr Watson?" Anderson asked, pulling a lighter out of his front trouser pocket and flicking it, the short bright flame erupting from the tip as he surveyed Sherlock.

"Nothing." Sherlock mumbles, twitching away from Anderson, the eyes of both the boys making him feel increasingly uncomfortable.

"Oh fuck off!" Anderson grinned mirthfully "You're like a proper teacher's pet, you're fucking kissing up to him like all the time and you never do that with any of the other teachers." Was it really necessary to swear every few words?

"No I don't." Sherlock growled, his voice little above a whisper, still determinately avoiding eye contact with both of them.

"Oh com-!"

"Shut up Alex!" Carl snapped, looking concerned at Sherlock "Are you ok?"

Nodding, Sherlock still avoided meeting his eyes.

Anderson sniggered "Oh get a room you two. But seriously though," he leant in closer to Sherlock so that his mouth was right up close to his class mate's ear, stowing the lighter away in his pocket "I mean there has to _be something_?"

"There isn't." Sherlock denied, his voice completely void of all emotion "Just leave me alone, ok?"

"Touchy!" Anderson threw his head back and laughed, flinging his arms up in mock surrender.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock flung his bag over his shoulder and jumped down from the wall, landing lightly on his feet.

"Wait, Sh-" Carl began but Sherlock silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"No! Leave me alone!" he spat, somewhat harsher than he had intended. Turning on his heels and stalking away in the direction of the school, his head held low and cursing himself for his sudden outburst, he hadn't meant to yell at Carl, Carl had at least been nice to him, it was Anderson who he was pissed off at. How had Anderson known about John? _What_ did Anderson know about him and John? If indeed anything. If Anderson found out about everything , it was safe to say that everybody would known in a heartbeat, they may as well just pack their bags and run as far away as possible. John would lose his job. Hell John would probably be arrested, and he'd never be able to see Sherlock ever again. Child protection would send him back to live with Jim, Sherlock shuddered as he walked faster at the thought of having to return to Baker Estate and the madman that inhabited it, and to have to leave Greg as well, he'd only just begun to feel like he actually properly _belonged _somewhere, Greg was even applying for a foster license.

And now fucking Anderson could ruin it all with a snap if his fingers, maybe.

No, he couldn't let that happen. He would not be parted from John, and he would not go back to Jim. He refused. Picking up his pace, he swiped a single tear that had been prickling in his eye. Why couldn't him and John have met say 10 years later?! Then he would be twenty six and John thirty five, and they wouldn't have to deal with all of this damn secrecy. But then again John would most probably be married to Mary, maybe with several kids by then, and Sherlock, well Sherlock would most likely have been dead already for a very long time. Turning a corner he found he was in the science block, he had made to journey so often now that his legs just automatically carried him there. John's classroom was right in the middle of the block and Sherlock made his way over, wiping his fist across his red tear-stained face as he did, before banging it against the door.

"Yes?" John called back, good, he was alone.

Opening the door ever so slightly so that he could only peer in through the small crack, just to check if he was right and John was on his own "Hello?"

"Hi," John's face instantly brightened at the sight of him, as if seeing him was the best thing that had happened to him all day, but his face quickly dropped upon seeing Sherlock's bloodshot eyes and tear tracks staining his usually bloodless cheeks. Getting up from his desk, abandoning the pile of work he was marking, he made his way over to the door "Are you ok?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, his mouth seemingly unable to form words, shaking his head briefly from side to side.

"What's wrong?" John asked, concern etched into every line of his face.

Still shaking his head, Sherlock paused for a moment before hurling himself at John, colliding with him and flinging his arms around the older man, clinging almost desperately to him burring his head in the crook of his neck, the force of his sudden attack causing them to stagger a little from the force.

"Sherlock, tell me what's happened?" John demanded, though not forcefully, his voice sounding slightly muffled by the impact of the embrace.

"I don't want to lose you." The boy answered in a hushed voice that was only barely above a whisper. It was then that John noticed that his entire body was shaking and trembling almost violently as he tightened his desperate grip on his teacher. He would not let him go. He would not let him go.

Relaxing, John coaxed Sherlock to release him, gently fighting to escape the forceful embrace, but Sherlock was stubborn as ever, gripping to John as if he were some kind of life support mechanism "Ssh," he soothed him, placing both hands on the sides of his face "It's ok, you're not going to lose me," leaning down to press a small kiss to Sherlock's tear stained cheek "You're not going to lose me," he repeated, gently bringing the boy back into his arms "I promise you, ok?"

"But what about-" Sherlock began, his voice still shaky.

Shaking his head to silence him, John pressed his index finger to Sherlock's lips "I promise." He repeated, emphasizing each individual syllable "Ok?"

Biting his lip, Sherlock gave a tiny nod "Ok."

John hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock on his own, he'd made sure that the boy was in Greg's company when he had taken him back to the flat, not even considering the possibility of leaving his side until the moment that he knew for certain that Sherlock would be safe without him there, and with somebody that he trusted to look after him and make sure that he didn't do anything. He did not want Sherlock to be set back after he had been doing so well for such a long time. He'd seemed absolutely distraught , thoughts and questions race d around John's head as he walked back to his own house alone. Something had to have happened that had made him feel threatened, venerable, perhaps in danger. John could be bet anything that it was Anderson that had planted those thoughts in Sherlock's head. Anderson just had to have turned on him again, though this time there were no new marks on Sherlock's body, no scratches or bruises, nothing, so there had been no violence towards him like there had previously, that was good at least. Though Anderson did prat about most of the time, acting the idiot, he wasn't as stupid and he had himself out to be. His intelligence wasn't a patch on Sherlock's of course, John didn't think that anybody in Sherlock's year was, but he did at least have some brain capacity, he wasn't entirely dumb, he could probably figure something out if he thought long and hard about it, probably... maybe, maybe not. Either way, he still wasn't worth a single hair on Sherlock's head, and if John had the power he would do everything that he could to keep that damned boy as far away from Sherlock as he could. But he couldn't, he was just a biology teacher, a biology teacher that couldn't be seen as have favourites, especially not when you're in love with them. Reaching the front door of his house, he slotted the key into the lock and pushed, noting how dark the house was, it was close to night outside and there wasn't a single light switched on inside, odd really, considering that Mary would probably have arrived home for work close to an hour ago "Mary?" he called out into the dark, fumbling around for the light switch which he eventually found after tripping over a pile of shoes by the door and cursing rather loudly, the hallway pooling with dim light "Mary?" he repeated, slightly louder, yet apprehensive. She was back, wasn't she?

There was a scuffling next door and Mary appeared in the doorway, dishevelled. She looked absolutely awful, her usually straight hair was tangled and matted and her clothes were matted and twisted about her body, but it was her face that drew his eyes. She looked ill, like she'd developed some kind of terrible cold over the course of the day, her nose was running and red raw and her eyes watered with red tear streaked cheeks, and her bottom lip was trembling.

"Jesus Christ." He breathed reaching for her, pulling her into a one armed hug, but she had other ideas and she hastily latched her mouth onto his, feverishly gripping his arms "woah!" fighting to escape her sudden attack as gently as he could, twisting gently to break free from her close to hysteric grasp, she choked as a fresh wave of tears "Mary, Mary.," he stared earnestly at her, not quite sure what he should say, patting her gently on the back and doing his best to guide her back into the living room, sitting her back down on the sofa, she instantly drew her limbs up close to her body. Mentally slapping himself for it, he couldn't help but see her as a sixteen year old pale boy with curly jet black hair when she did that. Sitting beside her and continuing to pat her comfortingly on the back "Do you want some water or something?" he asked as gently as he could.

Shaking her head, she let her gaze wander back to his face, remaining silent.

"Well are you hurt? Mare, tell me what's happened?"

Her lip trembled when he used her old nickname, and she looked like she was on the verge of bursting into tears again, shaking her head from side to side, not as if to say no, but as if to say that she couldn't find the words.

"Is it something to do with the baby?" John guessed, still rubbing her back as soothingly as he could.

A sharp intake of breath told him that it was, and his heart sank. What could have happened? What had she done? He waited for her to say, not wanting to question her further and upset her again, letting her find the time to say what she needed to say on her own.

"T-there..." she began, stumbling over the syllables "there isn't a – a baby John."

That couldn't right, that just _couldn't _be right. His eyebrows mashed together, convinced that he must have misheard her in some way "What do you mean?"

She was trembling almost uncontrollably, like she was shivering in an icy cold wind, sniffing, burring her face into her hands "it's hurt," she managed to choke between sobs.

What was she talking about? Something must of – oh "You..." it made sense, it explained why she was so distraught, it had _hurt_. Taking her hand in his spare one he squeezed it gently "What happened?" he questioned earnestly as she raised her head, still trembling.

"Last week, I – something was wrong..."

"You lost it, didn't you?" she asked as gently as he could.

For a rather long time she didn't answer, biting down on her bottom lip, she couldn't even look directly at him, she didn't want to see the expression on his face, whatever it was. But his voice did sound sincere enough, hard rough and tourtured sounding, as if he too were on the verge of tears, and for a long time they were both silent, poised like stone statues on the sofa, the faint sound of breathing only breaking the silence, both just trying to wrap their heads around the full impact of the situation. It was John that spoke first, partly because he knew that Mary wasn't willing to talk unless he actually asked her, but mainly because the painful tension was almost too much for him to bear "how do you feel?"

It took a moment or two to compute the question, sniffing rather loudly, tilting her head in his direction but still avoiding meeting his eyes "I'm ok, it doesn't really hurt anym-"

"No." He stopped her before she could go on anymore, placing his hand on hers causing her to recoil from him as if he had burnt her "Mare, how do you _feel_?"

Oh, well that was entirely different. Remaining silent she took a few deep steadying breaths. Whatever was coming would come, he deserved the truth, and so did she "Guilty." She admitted steadily, finally looking up into the eyes that she knew so well, now wrought with enough pain and anguish to reduce her into another fresh wave of sobs.

"Don't feel guilty, please." He all but begged her, taking her hand in his again and this time gripping tighter so that escape was virtually impossible "It wasn't your fault."

Shaking her head from side to side she broke eye contact with him again, still feeling his gaze burn holes through her "I was... so shocked, But I ... was relieved, John, and _that_ shocked me more." Breaking she collapsed into him, burying her head into the crook of his neck.

John was stunned as he held his sobbing fiancée in his arms. He just didn't understand. Mary had been thrilled when she had found out about the baby, she had been her lovely self as per usually. What had changed that would mean that she no longer wanted the baby? That was what it was – or what it had been. Not a little accident and not just a little cluster of cells with no meaning and no purpose. It had been a baby, a baby that had been half of him. He tried to talk but the words died in his throat before he could sound them. Raising his hands to his face, he dug the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying the steady his shallow breathing "Why?"

"You didn't want it." She said simply, though the trembling in her voice marred the harsh words. It? They were back to _it_?

Letting his hands fall, he turned latching his gaze onto her, a look of utter disbelieving contempt on his face. What did she know about what he wanted? Who was she to tell him what thoughts were in his own head? "Yes I did." The argument came in a shaky and almost vicious growl.

"Not with me though." He words hit him harder than he had been expecting, with enough brute force to knock every last breath of air from his chest. Was she right though? He didn't even know what he wanted anymore, he didn't know what he wanted from her, or whether in face he did indeed want anything from her. He had loved her once, a long time ago. Then it clicked. Why she had been relieved. Raising is head again "It wasn't mine, was it?"

It felt like a long time before she spoke again, blinking aimlessly into the dark, the room only still dimly lit by the hallway light, sucking her bottom lip, and with a small sigh she hunched her shoulders, sinking back into the sofa, hands clawing softly against the skin of her face "I don't know." She admitted finally, in a crack rasping voice "It was probably yours."

"What do you mean _probably_?" John demanded, thoughts beginning to race out of control, unable to isolate a single emotion for long enough to cling onto it... she... unable to register his own actions he found himself on his feet with his hands twisting knots in his hair. He didn't... he wasn't... No! "Dammit!" he hissed, pounding his palms against his forehead, flinching almost violently upon feeling comforting arms attempt to wrap around him "When?" he managed to stammer, twitching.

"It was only once." She insisted imploringly, again sounding on the verge of tears "It was... it was after I found out about you!"

Him? what about him? ...Sherlock? Sherlock... flicking his head around to stare bat his fiancée, usually so pretty and controlled, red-eyed with a quivering lip.

"I'm not an idiot John."

"H-how?" How had she known? _What _did she know? She just couldn't know the full extent of it all otherwise he'd probably be in police custody right about now, even if she was his fiancée. Was she his fiancée still? She certainly wasn't the mother of his child anymore, though on that matter he probably wasn't the father of his child either. Nothing made sense anymore! He wished he could just rewind before he had come into the house, when everything actually made sense to some extent at least, in less than half an hour everything had fucking changed! He needed Sherlock with him.

"So it's true then?" Mary asked, sitting herself back down on the sofa and indicating for John to do the same which he did almost instantly. She sounded hurt, but as though the news was not unexpected.

"I-" John tried to begin, but couldn't continue, the words dying on his lips before he could sound them.

"Do you love her?" her eyes flicked away again.

Her? So she didn't know everything. He'd have to say, he'd have to tell her. He was tired, tired of lying, and not just to her but to everybody, he was tired of having to keep it all a secret; he'd shout it from the rooftops if only he could, but of course he couldn't. And she above all people deserved the truth, or at least as much of it as he could give her "Yes." He admitted finally in a horse whisper, not looking at her, he couldn't look at her, he couldn't face her.

She was silent for a moment. To his great surprise, placing her hands gently on his, and when she spoke she was calm, much calmer than he had been expecting, it was close to unnerving "Do you want to be with them?"

Still too cowardly to bring himself to meet her gaze, he gave a tiny nod. Hearing her exhale rather deeply and squeeze his hand "I'm sorry." And he meant it, he really, really did. Sorry for all of the lies, for every argument, the pain, the guilt, and for the years of her time that he had wasted prating around when she deserved so much more and so much better than him, he didn't deserve to have another second of her time wasted on him. He almost wanted her to be angry with him, to scream in his face and tell him that he was worthless and a terrible partner, even hit him. But she didn't, she didn't do anything like that, quite the opposite in fact "You're a great guy Jo-"

"No!" he snapped, dragging his fingernails desperately over his scalp "don't do that, please."

"Do what?" she asked, taken aback by his sudden outburst.

"I'm sorry." He interjected immediately, raising his hand to gently run the tips of his finger against her cheek, finally meeting her watery eyes "I'm such a dick."

"No." She objected softly, shaking her head as the tiniest flicker of a smile crossed her lips "but you're not my John anymore." Wetting her lips, she sighed again, examining his tired confused face, continuing "Well, the John Watson that I fell in love with was a happy little... teenager who wanted to be a doctor more than anything else in the world." The tiniest flicker of a fond smile played gently on her lips at the thought "And you know that I'll always love him, no matter what, but you're not him."

"I'm sorry." He repeated, unable to find anything else in his blank confused mind, feeling utterly useless and rotten. But everything she said was true, every word.

The tips of her fingers gently traced circles over his knuckles, and he toyed with the idea of just leaning forward and kissing her as if his life depended on it, but decided against it, he'd done enough damage already, and the last thing that either of them needed tonight was for their heads to be even more twisted and fucked up then they already were.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, glancing up.

Mary considered the question for a moment or two, sucking on the inside of her cheek "No." She answered slowly "I was, I wanted to fucking kill you, but not anymore." Peering up she elegantly flicked some of her long hair out of her eyes "it's not exactly your fault that you don't love me anymore."

It hurt, it really did. He did still love her, even after all of the wrong he'd done her "I do." He argued in a small voice.

"No, not _that_ way." She objected softly, the corner of her mouth quirking "not anymore." She released his hands, getting slowly to her feet, a pained but genuine smile on her face.

"Don't go." He all but begged her, catching her wrist and gripping as if she were about to evaporate into thin air.

She made a half-hearted, feeble effort to prize her wrist from his vice-like grip "I have to go." She tried to explain, edging away slowly "Or I'll never leave."

John didn't object, or even make an attempt to pull her back into his arms, not that he didn't want to, he was weak and cowardly and he couldn't quite comprehend what would happen once she had left. She was leaving, she was actually leaving. Leaving him, leaving this house, just walking away out of his life. It didn't quite feel real, like some cruel trick reality was playing with his mind "Where will you go?"

She shrugged softly, finally wrenching her arm from his hand "I'll probably go and stay with my sister."

"In _Devon_?"

"Yeah, it's best, I'll probably stay with a friend until then."

Reaching out, he caught her hand quickly as she turned to leave, remembering how many times he had grabbed hold of her hand before, it must have been millions of times, all of those times she would smile and they would kiss like teenagers and dance for hours. But now, he fixed her with an imploring gaze "Are you ok?"

Her smile didn't quite meet her eyes. It wasn't a smile, it was the ghost of a smile long gone "No," she admitted, dropping his hand so that it fell back against his thigh "But I will be," she promised him "And so will you."

"Wait!" he called, carefully choosing his words so as not to give off the wrong impression "I'll see you though, yeah?"

She smiled. After everything she actually smiled a wide, warm, genuine smile. A smile that brought back some of the happy pretty girl he'd fallen in love with "Of course." Offering her hand, he grasped it, and she squeezed his gently, slipping something cold and metal into his palm, and turned.

Sitting precariously back down onto the sofa, John raking his fingers though his sandy hair, haring the front door close. He was on his own, completely alone, and Mary was gone, she had actually left. Remembering that she'd handed him something, he carefully opened his fist palm upwards, almost scared to look directly at it, revealing a small plain golden band. She had left her ring.

**Well that's the end of the Mary storyline. Goodbye Mary Morstan, we might see you in series 3. Ah yeah, despite myself I did actually start to like my Mary, so this was my attempt at decent closure for that character. Hope you all like it, thanks guys, review please. **


	24. Changed my Plea to Guily

**Hey guys **

**Basically I've decided that I need to try and finish this story like as soon as possible, I'm not sure how close we are to finishing, but with any luck we should be finished by the time this year is over. Not really anything else that I can say really for the moment other than: enjoy this chapter, I love you all and thank you again for your continued support **

**Love Micky xxxxxx **

Mycroft Holmes had always detested this place. It was always dark and smelt strongly of damp no matter what time of year it was. Why Jim had chosen to live here of all places he would never know, then again, he would probably never understand anything that went on in that man's head. He was a very twisted individual, Jim Moriarty. Mycroft didn't know that much about his life before he had met him, he had been a friend of his and Sherlock's father; they had always been close even when Jim had gone into hospital after his mental breakdown, and from then on he had never quite been the same, but he had always loved his godchild. Whenever he had visited the Holmes' when Mycroft had been younger he had only ever had eyes from the little boy with the black curls and the piercing blue eyes; tiny, sickly little thing he had been, and he had cried a lot more than other children his age had, sometimes for absolutely no reason at all, just because he felt sad or because he wanted attention, which Jim always given him. He had stopped crying once their parents had died, no explanation, he'd just stopped, like the ducts in his eyes just wouldn't form tears anymore, he hadn't spoken much either, in fact there had been long periods of time when he had remained completely silent for hours and hours, though when he was younger Sherlock had never been much of a talker anyway, in fact it had taken him such a long time to start talking as a baby that their parents had worried that he might be hearing impaired. And following when their parents had died, doctors had though he was even suffering from post-traumatic stress. Mycroft worried about his baby brother in more ways than he could say, but he'd stayed away for much too long to ever regain the bond they previously had. He knew that Sherlock was angry with him, possibly even hated him – and with good reason to be, after all he hadn't seen the boy in nearly nine years, and hadn't made any contact with him since the hospital, it was probably for the best really, the boy needed some time to think, to clear his head and hopefully feel better, even if that meant being helped by John Watson.

Taking a deep breath and rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, he wrapped hard on the door of 221b with the back of his knuckles. There was a momentary scuffle on the other side of the door before it was wrenched open. "Hello Jim." Mycroft breathed in greeting.

A wide grin broke out over Jim Moriarty's face. He didn't match his surroundings in the slightest, he was dressed neatly in an expensive looking suit, his jet black hair scraped back from his face, not a single spot of dust marring his perfect appearance "Hello Mykie!" returning the greeting, rather more enthusiastically than was necessary.

"I've come to see my brother." Mycroft informed him curtly, appearing non-phased by Jim's wide grin.

"Really now?" Jim chortled, the sarcasm evident in his voice "I thought you might have come to have a nice little talk with me. We haven't done that in a while now, must catch up, how's the family"?

"James-" Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust as being addressed by his birth name, he had always hated when anybody called him James, no matter who or why it was "I need to know when Sherlock will be back from school."

"He won't." Jim stated simply, and throwing Mycroft a quick smile, he turned and vanished back into the flat, leaving the door open from Mycroft to follow.

Puzzled by this rather bizarre statement, Mycroft entered the flat, examining the dingy interior through sceptical eyes. Again, why Jim had chosen to live here her would never understand, not to mention bring up a little boy here – feeling yet another painful twinge of increasingly bitter guilt at his own absence in the upbringing of his baby brother "What do you mean he won't be coming back? Is he ok?" he questioned, his eyebrows mashing together.

Jim flung himself down onto the sofa, fixing his attention on a book resting next to him rather than on his godson's brother, as if only half interested in him "I mean exactly that." He informed him, sounding bored "Shirley won't be coming back here after school today, or tomorrow, and eh most likely won't be coming back next week either." A small smile playing on his lips as he flicked through the pages "But he will come back, he'll come back one day, he always does in the end."

Mycroft could hardly believe what he was hearing. Sherlock wasn't here? Well then where was he? Gaping at Jim, he stooped down to his eye level "Well how long has he been gone for?"

Jim shrugged "Couple of months."

"Couple_- what_?" he stuttered, certain that he must have misheard him, that just couldn't be right "B-but that's nearly since he was in the hospital."

"Mmm yeah it was I suppose." Jim mused rather indirectly, again sounding bored, losing interest in the conversation and flicking the worn pages of the book before slamming it shut seemingly bored of that as well.

"Why did you not inform me of this sooner?" Mycroft demanded, his patience beginning to slip.

Jim slowed, his eyes carefully deliberating, making their way up to Mycroft's increasingly frustrated face, leaning up from the sofa to point a sceptical finger in his direction "What, so you could do absolutely nothing about it? As per usual? Hmm?"

Growling, Mycroft turned. He was right of course, he'd never taken direct action involving his brother before, not even after what had happened to him when he was ten. But this time was different, this time he would do something "Do you have any idea where he is?" the sudden energy in his voice evident.

"Well he'll be at school at the moment, but he'll most likely be back at that teacher's house in about an hour."

It took several moments for Mycroft to fully comprehend what Jim was saying. He knew where Sherlock was? Exactly where he was? And he had done nothing about it? And teacher? Which teacher? Anger shot through him like icy water through his veins "Is my brother with John Watson?" he demanded, all but spitting the words through his clenched jaw.

Jim gave him a look, the type as if to ask _Are you stupid?_ "Mykie, Mykie, Mykie, Mykie, Mykie. Do you honestly think that that boy is stupid enough to go and stay at the exact place that he knows will be the first place that both you and I would look for him?"

When he said it like that Mycroft did have to admit that it wouldn't have been the best place to go and hides from somebody that was looking for you "But you know where he is, yes?" he double checked.

"Oh yeah." Jim waved away the question with a flick of his wrist "In fact his school finishes in about," checking his watch briefly "Fifteen minutes, you'll probably be able to catch him if you get there in time.

Giving a nod and murmuring a half-hearted thanks, Mycroft turned to leave.

"Tell him I said hi, yeah?" Jim called after him.

Nodding curtly again, Mycroft left without another word, feeling Jim's wide grin follow him out the door, staling purposefully from 221b back to the car waiting for him at the entrance to the building "St Bartholomew's School." He instructed the driver who inclined his head and pulled out to Baker Estate. Approaching the school the older Holmes felt his stomach begin to knot together with the sense of impending doom setting in, he could predict – most probably correctly – that Sherlock would not want to speak to him, and when he was not under the protection of his legal guardian, there was almost nothing that Mycroft could do that would convince him otherwise no matter how hard he persisted. The school was situated a few miles from the estate, already considerably less shabby, it was a relatively old building and by the time the car pulled up outside the back gate a few students had already begun to gather around the gate either to wait for friends or go home. Sitting back in the black leather seat, Mycroft crossed his fingers over his stomach, chewing his lip and waiting for the barely vaguely familiar face of his brother to appear in the crowd of students milling around the school gate. Sherlock was actually one of the last students to leave the school, the crowd of teenagers in the uniform gradually thinning until he appeared, his own uniform looking rather ruffled but clean, his bag slung over his shoulder, and a tiny smile playing on his young fresh face. Watching him walk for several moments, Mycroft opened the car door, climbing out "Sherlock!" upon hearing his name the boy flicked his head around, spotting Mycroft, all traces of the smile quickly gone. He could run, he could pretend that he hadn't heard him, no he couldn't do that, nobody else was called Sherlock and he was already staring at him. Mycroft was already approaching him anyway, trying a small smile in greeting, which was not reciprocated "Hello brother." He said gently.

For a rather long time Sherlock remained completely silent, not saying anything in return, an unpleasant mix of anger and confusion conflicting his face, working out whether it would be better to yell or to just ignore the man before him, failing to notice his bag sliding down his limp arm and hitting the ground with a rather dull thud "No..." he finally said, shaking his head slowly from side to side, apparently unable to say anything else "no, no, no... leave."

"Can we talk please?" Mycroft chanced.

"Why would I want to talk to you?" Sherlock demanded, angry now, his nails biting into the palms of his clenched fists.

"Come on Sherl-"

"I don't want to see you Mycroft!"

Exhaling deeply, desperation mounting, he continued imploringly "please?"

"No!"

"Sherlock, please, just... give me – just give me half an hour. And then after that if you still don't want to see me then I promise you won't have to, ok?"

Sherlock considered this. He would only have to tolerate his dick of a brother for half an hour and then he would never have to see him again after that, though it was Mycroft, there was bound to be some kind of catch, and why did Mycroft want to talk to him so badly in the first place? Why now at least? The deal did seem fair enough, he suppose, weighing up the options "Fifteen minutes." He amended the deal.

"Done." Mycroft agreed instantly, not wanting to anger him "Come on, I'll buy you ice cream."

Staring Sherlock remained stationary "Why would I want ice cream?"throwing his brother a filthy look, he turned, indicating for Mycroft to follow, glancing back expectantly at him, though only silence greeted him "I'm timing you." He informed him. Right, of course he was, he had always been like that. Coming to rest by a brick wall, Sherlock leant against it, pulling a cigarette and lighter out of his bag. He didn't even care anymore, he couldn't quite bring himself to care about the consequences; his brain was too busy racing around in unpleasant circles, with a mix of anger, betrayal and confusion for him to actually want to be bothered to think about kicking the habit right now. Clamping it between his lips and lighting the end, taking a long drag on it and gesturing for Mycroft to talk.

Struggling to find the right word, the older Holmes felt his colour heighten, biting his lip and his eyes flicking sceptically over the cigarette in his baby brother's mouth "Are you still seeing John Watson?"

Not wasting any time there then, Sherlock remarked privately to himself, his thoughts bitter "Why would it matter to you if and am or not?" he snapped, drawing heavily on the cigarette and glancing at his brother, rolling his eyes incredulously "Yes I am. But I refuse to go into any more details involving John, so don't even bother wasting your breath." He spat, the words laced with venom.

"Very well." It was, after all, the response Mycroft had been expecting "Why are you not at home with Jim?"

The words 'home' and 'Jim Moriarty' didn't seem to fit in the same sentence quite right. Home and Jim. It just sounded wrong "Because I don't like living with Jim." Sherlock explained as if it were blatantly obvious, shrugging and flicking the cigarette butt on the ground, grinding the ball of his foot into the gravel surrounding it.

"You could have told me that."

"Oh yeah? How?" the younger Holmes scoffed, rolling his eyes at the stupid comment "and when? While you were too busy fucking around at Cambridge to care? When I wasn't invited to your wedding? Or now, when you're too bloody busy with whatever work you do to visit me any other time than when I'm in hospital?"

His words stung bitterly as they ultimately reached the crescendo. But of course he was right, completely and utterly right "I'm so-"

"I don't want your apology!" Sherlock glared angrily at his older brother, stamping his feet like he was five years old again.

"What do you want?"

"Not to have to waste my time talking to you." Huffing in frustration, he contained, slowing his words "You don't care."

"I do."

"No you don't! Because when this is over you're just going to fuck off back to your nice government desk, with your nice wife and you nice cars and leave me again." All the anger and frustration that he'd squashed to the back of his mind for years was all coming out in his voice, ringing in desperation, as if he were pleading with him.

Softening his gaze, Mycroft sighed, considering reaching out to the boy before him, deciding that it was best not to test the theory "I wish that I hadn't left Sherlock."

"Yes but you did." Exhaling heavily, Sherlock let his eyes dart back to Mycroft momentarily, then to the ground "When you left me at Jim's, I used to wait for you to come back. I sat by my window and just looked out, everyday for two years, and you never came back." That was the first time he'd ever told anybody that before, nobody knew that apart from himself and Jim, and only because it was with him whom he lived.

"Sherlock – " he really did reach out for him that time.

Recoiling as if Mycroft had made to hit him, Sherlock glared at him "No! I don't want you here anymore, not you and not Jim."

"If you don't want to live with Jim, maybe you could come and live with me." Mycroft suggested quickly.

Live with Mycroft? The brother who had left him all those years ago? Just go waltzing into his perfect life with his perfect house and his perfect job and his perfect wife "Yeah? What do you know about kids?"Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, I have a kid!"

It took a moment or two for the reality of the statement to fully sink in, Sherlock gaping angrily, his expression torn between rage and curiosity. Mycroft had a kid? _Mycroft? _When had that happened? Even he had missed that, him with all his powers of deduction "Oh, well that might have been nice to know. Oh by the way Sherlock," he continued, imitating his brother's upper class dialect which was only marginally dissimilar from his own "You're an uncle, your brother had a bloody kid. Oh, unless you have two, or three, or maybe six of them?" he demanded, jaw hanging slightly.

"No, just the one." Mycroft interjected, unable to prevent the corners of his mouth pricking in a tiny crocked smile "It's a girl."

"And _when_, may I ask, did this happen?" Sherlock asked curtly, as if in any other completely normal conversation about any other perfectly normal topic.

"Two years ago now."

"Ah, well that's nice for you and whatever your wife's name is."

"Anthea." He corrected him.

"Yeah, tell her that I wish her the very best if luck in being subjected to spending the rest of her life with _you_."

Choosing to ignore the statement, Mycroft added hopefully "You could always tell her yourself if you wanted."

"No, Mycroft." Exaggerating each individual syllable "I don't want to come and live with you, I'm fine where I am." Turning rather briskly and showing his hands into his pockets.

"Wait Sherlock!" the older Holmes reached out just in time to catch his brother's arm "Where are you going?"

"Fifteen minutes." Sherlock reminded him, lightly attempting to wrench his arm from Mycroft's grip, but he persisted.

"Sher-"

"What's her name?" Sherlock asked, butting in before Mycroft could finish, fixing him with a rather unnecessarily harsh glare.

"Excuse me?"

"What's my niece's name?" he pressed, enunciating each word clearly as if talking to a deaf person, rolling his eyes in exasperation, shifting his weight onto one of his feet.

"Emily." He answered simply "Her name is Emily." Of all the names that he could have chosen from, he chose that one? Of the massive variety, he had picked Emily. Why did it have to be Emily? He could have named his baby girl after anybody else, absolutely _anybody. _Suppressing an overwhelming urge to shake him, Sherlock stood ridged as a board before him, again his nails biting into the palms on his clenched fists. "Sherl-"

"Does she look like her?" Sherlock butted in before his brother could say anything else, his voice completely void of all emotion. He had to know, he just had to.

"The spitting image."

Strongly suppressing a sob, biting down hard on his bottom lip, Sherlock's eyes flicked over his brother. He hated the man before him, for everything that he had done, or rather everything that he hadn't done that he should have. Hate founded by love and brotherly bond, though he maybe wouldn't admit it aloud he could no more stop caring about his brother than he could change the colour of his eyes "Mummy wouldn't have been proud of you for naming her that, you know that?"

"I know that." It was as if he was surrendering, completely putting his hands up and accepting full responsibility for every single wrong he had committed. He sounded like a broken man, exhausted, too tired to keep fighting all the guilt and all the pain anymore "I can't even begin to make up for anything, but please Sherlock," his icy exterior breaking on the boy's name, tightening his grip on his arm "let me try and make it up to you, I- I want to..." trailing off at the sight of the boy shaking his head.

"How are you going to do that?" Sherlock questioned, the blank placidness in his voice even startling him.

"I don't know." He admitted.

"Will you do something for me?" Sherlock asked, his voice still completely and utterly null and void of all traces of emotion.

"Anything, anything you want."

"Don't ever leave her, don't leave Emily."

"I can promise you that Sherlock Holmes, I will _never_ leave her."

The Ice Man, that was what Jim called him whenever he was mentioned back at the flat, right now he was not living up to that name at all, grovelling almost desperately at his brother. It was quite pathetic to watch, as if he was actually _trying_ to make his little brother feel guilty for rejecting him. he had every right to reject him! he had gotten to the point of not expecting to ever see his brother ever again years ago, and now it was like he was just expecting him to forget it all, to just forget the countless hours he had waiting for him to come back, all of the times that he had needed him and all of the times that he had not been there. Sherlock didn't need him anymore, not now, not now that he had other people, he had John now, and Greg, he didn't need Mycroft and he most certainly did not need Jim – or Seb or Irene or whoever else came with him. He didn't need the drugs anymore, he didn't need the cuts and he didn't need and empty stomach, he didn't need any of it anymore.

"I don't want to see you Mycroft," he said bluntly "At all, and I'm not going back to live with Jim either." Knowing he would see be interrupted he raised his voice to overpower whatever feeble argument that would emit from his brother's lips "Both of you stay away from me, and stay away from John, ok?" tearing his eyes off of Mycroft, which was considerably harder in practice than in theory, he turned, dragging his legs – that felt as if they were made of lead – away from the spot.

"Wait!" he didn't want to turn back, fifteen minutes was up, he didn't want to hear it anymore, he'd had enough, flicking his head momentarily back around to fix on Mycroft's burning glare.

Thrusting a small card into Sherlock's slack fingers Mycroft instantly retreated "Just take that, please, it has all of my contact details on it."

Waving it around under the older Holmes' nose, Sherlock fixed him with an incredulous look "Why would I want this?"

"Just keep it." His brother gazed imploringly at him "Just in case you ever change your mind."

Shoving the card into his trouser pocket, Sherlock turned on his heels, leaving his brother on the pavement, staring determinately ahead fighting the overwhelming urge to look back.

**I know I made Mycroft a little OCC in this but ah well. **

**Yep, I have some unfortunate news and that is that I will be forced to take a two week break from writing as it is now the summer holidays and I will be travelling to the land without internet (so camping), yeah so the next chapter may take a little longer but I will have it up as soon as I am able to. **

**Ok thank you, please review. **


	25. Don't Make Fun of Daddy

**Hey guys **

**No point in writing a long AN today, just have to apologise for taking a while to update and to say that this fic will soon be coming to an end, and with any luck it will be finished by October in time for series 3, so only a few more chapters to go that means. This chapter was actually going to two short chapters, but I just decided to join them together to make one longer chapter. **

**And I feel that I need to explain the British education system for my American readers. GCSEs are exams that everybody has to do at the age of either 15 or 16, once you have finished those you have to stay in school until you're 18, so you can either go to college or you do these things called A-levels which are basically like GCSEs but harder and they mean that you can go to university. Yeah, just in case that needed explaining. **

**Love Micky xxxx**

**Chapter 24 **

"Ok, here's an easy one: how many planets are there between the Earth and the Sun?"

Thinking about the question for several moments, Sherlock shuffled a little uncomfortably on John's living room sofa "I don't know." He answered finally.

Rolling his eyes and leaning back on the sofa, John shook his head in utter exasperation "Sherlock, you need to know this."

"But why do I need to learn about the solar system?" Sherlock wined, sounding as if he were about five years old, determinately crossing his arms across his chest and fixing his teach with a stubborn child-like glare.

"Because it's on the curriculum, that's why, now come on you need to revise this stuff." Nudging the boy rather unintentionally hard in the rubs with his elbow "ok," flicking over to the next page of the book "What's the big yawn?"

"Something someone does when they're tired." Sherlock answered bluntly.

"Jesus Sherlock! Do you actually know _any _of this?"

"It's not important." Sherlock stated, huffing impatiently.

"It is! Seriously Sherlock, do you even know that the Earth goes around the Sun?" It was meant as a joke but something in the way that the boy wouldn't quite meet his eyes that confirmed the worst "Oh my God!"

"It's not important!" he repeated, louder this time.

"It is if you actually want to pass your bloody physics exam."

"I don't need physics!" groaning exasperatedly he flung himself up off the sofa, dragging his fingers through his hair "it's not like I'm going to be a... _physicist _or something!"

"Sherlock," standing as well and placing an encouraging hand on the boy's shoulder, his tone softer "If you have physics you can be a: technician, meteorologist," listing the possible careers on his fingers "computer programmer, hell you could even be a doctor."

"But what does it matter"? Stamping his feet in frustration "So what we go round the sun! What would it matter if we went round the moon, or round-and-round-the-garden-like-a-teddy-bear, it wouldn't make any difference!"

John gazed at him for several moments, a look of dumbfounded indignation on his face "But it's the solar system!"

Choosing to ignore him rather than retaliate with some snide remark which was inevitable if the conversation were to continue, he flung himself back down onto the sofa, dragging John with him by the hand "Well at least when all of these damned exams are over you won't be my teacher anymore."

"I can see some advantages in that." John allowed, draping an arm around Sherlock so that he could snuggle into his side "And we haven't talked about it or anything yet but I was wondering what you think you might like to do for your A-levels?" pausing for a moment to re-think the question "You will be doing A-levels, right?" exaggerating the concern in his voice.

"You sound like Greg." Sherlock muttered, just about loud enough for John to hear him "He wants me to do A-levels too. I suppose I'll have too."

"Good. I don't want you to miss out on any opportunities. You're bloody smart Sherlock, you really could go far."

"Stop talking like a teacher." The boy argued, mocking irritation and playfully nudging John in the ribs with his bony elbow.

"I am a teacher, Sherlock." He said it playfully enough, though there was definitely an undisguised seriousness about his voice.

Jumping quite unexpectedly, Sherlock pressed John down into a lying position on the sofa, encircling the older man's wrists and holding them up by his head, swinging one of his legs over his body to crouch over him "Do you want to be?"

"Want to be what?" John asked breathlessly, losing his train of thought, not bothering to fight back, being fondly reminded of the first time he had ever kissed Sherlock, his similar it had all been. How far they had come since then was mind-blowing.

"A teacher?" Sherlock repeated, leaning down to run the tip of his nose against the length of John's, his curls tickling John's forehead.

"I don't know." John answered quite truthfully, he had been giving the matter a lot of thought recently "I mean, I never wanted to be a teacher, but medical school and everything didn't really fit into the package when I got engaged."

"Well you're not engaged anymore." Sherlock reminded him, privately whooping for joy.

"True but-"

"But what?" the boy's brow furrowed, his voice lower in tone from sentiment not usually used "You want me to succeed, and I want the same for you."

"I always knew that you were a sentimentalist at heart." John teased, fighting lightly against the boy's grip but he had gotten stronger since last time he'd had John pinned beneath him.

"I am no such thing." Sherlock grinned, leaning down to steal a quick kiss.

"Well then, maybe next year I won't just not be your teacher anymore, but I might not be a teacher at all."

Sherlock paused for a rather long moment, still keeping John pinned down, drifting somewhat deep in thought, looking as if he were solving something before a tiny smile began to play on his lips "Sir?"

"Mmh?"

"Does that mean that we can be together?"

"In the long term, yes, I think so." John answered, smiling ever so slightly giddily himself now at that prospect.

"Good." Leaning down to catch his lover's lips momentarily with his own, his hands still tightly encasing John's wrists "What are you thinking?" he wandered aloud.

"Can you not tell?"

"Not always, not with you anyway." He admitted, shrugging as if to say that his was only a minor hindrance "You're harder to read."

"I'd have though that I'd be easier to read." John remarked honestly, sighing "Is that a good thing?"

"No, it's actually very frustrating." Sitting up he released John's wrists, his entire stance suddenly more central, more closed off, throwing John and annoyed look "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything." John objected, chortling a little.

"No but you were thinking, it's annoying." His eyes narrowed and he huffed in frustration "Stop being difficult."

Sniggering, he reached up to gently run the tip of his index finger against the boy's rather prominent cheekbone, noting for the first time in a long time how sharp it felt "I can't help it."

Rolling his eyes, though flashing a quick smile in John's direction, Sherlock shifted, lifting himself up to settle next to John instead, and John noticed – or rather imagined – how skinny he was looking, and fear shot through him, cold ridged fear "Well I guess that we'll both leave Bart's at the same time then." Sherlock mused, not noticing or rather choosing not to notice John's staring at him.

"I suppose you're right, in a manner of speaking." He answered, jaw set.

"How's Mary?" Sherlock asked abruptly, his face becoming stony and ashen, looking expectantly at John.

He shrugged, there really was no reason not to tell Sherlock so it was best not to lie about anything, Sherlock would most likely recover the truth eventually, he was like that "She's alright, she's staying with her sister."

"Do you miss her?" the bitterness and evident resentment that had previously been undisguised in his voice whenever Mary was brought up was all gone, in fact he almost sounded genuinely concerned, curious even sympathetic, which was rare for Sherlock.

"Yeah," John admitted sheepishly, twiddling his fingers together and finally sitting up beside the boy "I miss the old her."

"The old her?" Sherlock questioned, a confused crease forming on his forehead at the rather odd statement.

"Yeah, like she was when I first met her I mean." Pausing he draped one of his arms around him again, shifting into his side a little more "But I've got you now, and that's what matters, yeah?"

"Mmh." Sherlock answered in way of agreement, though his sceptical expression said otherwise "Will we be ok, us I mean?"

"I hope so." Then narrowing his eyes suspiciously, John tilted his head a little to the side, using his curled index finger to raise to boy's head "Why? Are you ok?"

"Yeah I'm ok." Giving a weedy smile, it would have been convincing if it had been to anybody else, but John knew him better than that, John knew him for real.

"Please tell me." Encouraging him gently, gazing softly at him.

Usually Sherlock would not say, talking about his feelings had never been something he was good at, in fact relating to anybody on an emotional level was something he had always struggled with, so in the end he had just given up on it, and everybody had eventually given up getting him to try. Nobody ever wanted to know anyway. No, that wasn't entirely true, John wanted to know. Why was it that the one person that wanted to know was the one person that Sherlock did not want to burden with his problems? John himself was still looking rather worriedly at him, waiting for an answer "It's my brother." He lied – well, _sort of_ lied.

John's heart sank, being forcibly reminded of the one time that he had met Sherlock's brother, in the hospital after the overdose, and he had made the deal with Mycroft, the deal that Sherlock still didn't know about, and six months was up. He had fixed Sherlock, hadn't he? Or rather Sherlock was well on the way to fixing himself with John's help. Mycroft wouldn't be able keep them apart, not forever. Sherlock would be eighteen in well under two years, and after that Mycroft would have no legal control over his brother at all, and Sherlock would be free to do as he pleased. However John would not be if they were discovered, and judging by the little time that he had spent with Mycroft, he knew that the older Holmes brother was not a man that anybody would want as their enemy. "Has anything happened?"

Shrugging, Sherlock's eyes darted up and down the older man "Saw him the other day, that's all."

"What did he say to you?" just about managing to disguise the urgency in his voice.

"Not much." It was sort of true, Sherlock had been the one doing most of the talking after all, so much that at points Mycroft had barely been able to get a single sentence across.

"Well then, what are you worried about?"

For a moment or two Sherlock did honestly consider telling John absolutely everything that had been said, about all of the feelings of abandonment that he had learnt to lock away over the years and how stupid and weak it all made him feel, to the point where he resented himself for it. If his own brother didn't have the time of day for him, then who would? He was Freak Holmes, the little pill-popping oddball from the Estate, the boy that nobody liked. They would all leave him, eventually, everybody always did. Deciding to spare subjecting John to such petty wining, but above everything more unwilling to have to recap all the details in his own head than to share them, he didn't want to think about it too much, and he especially didn't want to have to answer a load of goddamn questions about the whole affair "It's nothing, I'm fine, I just don't really want to talk about it."

Something in the way that John narrowed his eyes at him, told him that John knew that he wasn't begin entirely honest about the whole situation, but he let it slip, this time, Sherlock knew that this conversation was by no means finished, he would be subjected to further questioning at some point in the near future, that was just the type of man that John Watson was, but he decided that he wasn't going to let it bother him "He hasn't talked to _you_, has he?" he checked, suddenly filled with an almost overwhelming sense of dread.

"Mycroft? No. No, I haven't heard from him since the hospital." John insisted, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder "You don't have to worry about that."

"And Jim?"

John though but then shook his head, he would let that one meeting slip "No, have you?"

"Nothing." That was odd. Was it odd? Jim had been there for the whole of his godson's life, he'd even lived with him for most of it, and the fact that he had just dropped out of Sherlock's life more or less completely when Sherlock had left the flat was a little odd. He hadn't even tried to make contact with him, because knowing Jim he probably knew exactly where he was, in fact he had probably known where he had been the whole time, and it had probably taken him about ten minutes to track Sherlock down. What exactly was he waiting for? If Sherlock knew Jim – and he was more or less sure that he did have the measure of him – he was probably biding his time, waiting for Sherlock to want to come back on his own. Well, Sherlock wasn't holding out much stock for _that_. He could sense that the conversation was coming to an end and he was glad for that, he didn't want to have to dwell on Jim or Mycroft, not in his spare time with John. He just wanted to enjoy being with John and not having to worry about his own messed up family, or the fucking student-teacher obstacle. He just needed to take his mind of everything "Can I do something?" he asked quietly, shuffling a little closer on the sofa.

"Yeah sure, what do you want to do?" John asked, smiling, absolutely clueless. "We can revise more physics, I think you'll..."

But Sherlock silenced him by leaning up to quickly latch his lips to John's to stop him from continuing to talk absolute bollocks. John, though utterly perplexed, did not object, slanting a little to gain better access to the boy's mouth, the tip of Sherlock's tongue gently gracing John's bottom lip before catching it between both of his own and sucking lightly, grinning privately at the little groan it provoked, snaking his arms up around the older man, breaking the kiss only to run the tip of his nose along the length of John's, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans.

"What are you doing?" John asked looking confused, his voice so quiet it was barely audible, his lips hardly moving at all.

"Can I _do_ something?" Sherlock repeated with bated breath.

Instantly recoiling, John himself and the boy apart with the tips of his fingers "No, absolutely not."

"Stop being so honourable, it's nothing we haven't done before." He assured him, frustration building in his voice with every word, attempting to shift closer little by little "And surely it's better." He chanced a quick glance at his lover who was staring at him, a look of utter indignation on his face. He really was quite adorable when he did that.

"Sherl-"

"Please?" he muttered in a whisper, not quite sure exactly what he was asking for.

Gnawing on his bottom lip John frowned at him, opening his mouth as if to say something, but again Sherlock leant up to catch his lips in another kiss, coaxing his taught lips before John seemed to give up, lacing his fingers through the boy's thick curls and pulling in, closing as much space between them as he could, his teeth catching on Sherlock's bottom lip, holding onto him as if he were in danger of vanishing, pleased with the tiny strangled moan in the back of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock could quite happily kiss John for hours, just spend an eternity in his arms with their mouths mashed together, it just felt right, there really was no other way that he could describe it, it was like for the first time in a very long time somebody could actually care about him, that somebody actually had it within their power to make him happy. But kissing was just one of the activities that Sherlock wanted to participate it. His fingers gently fiddling their way to the rim of John's shirt while the man himself's finger splayed across the boy's back. Quickly unhooking the belt before John had a chance to spout anymore 'You're too young' crap, and taking him in his hand he felt the sharp intake of breath from John against his own lips, scraping the nails of his hand across John's scalp, causing tiny pinpricks of pain. God he loved that. He wanted to get rid of all of the irritating clothing that John was wearing, so many unnecessary hindrances that were preventing him from being able to feel all of John's skin, and yet there was still something utterly perfect about everything so he banished the thought from his mind. Stroking up John's cock as his teacher convulsed in his arms, keeping their lips locked together as John shamelessly rutted his hips to meet Sherlock's hand. Even through tightly closed eyes, John could feel Sherlock's smug grin against his lips, and clutching the boy as he felt himself slip, uttering a string of moans, his breath hitched as he came, the boy's name muffled by the kiss. Sherlock almost couldn't contain his pride, realising John and pressing his forehead against John's, not caring about how sweaty he was, finding that he was quite breathless, grinning smugly ear-to-ear like an idiot. He had done that.

"Was that ok?" he just had to check, a sudden pang of fear coiling in his stomach.

"Does Mel Gibson hate Jews?" John hissed, unable to think of a more obvious question, keeping his eyes still tight shut, a smile playing on his lips. Though when Sherlock remained silent he opened one of his eyes, seeing Sherlock's confused face "You don't know who Mel Gibson is, do you?"

"No, no I don't." Sherlock shook his head innocently, fighting to control his own laughter "I don't watch much TV."

"No I suppose you don't." John leant up to claim Sherlock's mouth in another kiss "More physics revision then?" he mumbled against Sherlock's lips and Sherlock groaned.

...

If there was one thing that Sherlock hated, most probably above all else – besides obnoxious arses like Anderson – it was having to socialise. He had never been any good at it in his entire life and he never would, not now, not ever. He had found in his sixteen years that he was a very introverted person, and feelings were especially hard, and nobody was usually interested anyway. Socialising was best left to other people, to those who were actually competent at it, and he could just sit there and read his book like he usually did. But Greg was insisting that he made an effort to bond with Ian, and after all he did have very good connections with the police force which Sherlock may be able to use to his advantage rather than exerting his brother's influences. Ian was friendly enough he supposed, he didn't ask annoying questions in any case which was convenient if he would be coming to live with him and Greg, which was a subject more frequently talked about every day, and Sherlock supposed that it was an inevitable possibility that he would soon be getting another informal foster father. He didn't mind, he wasn't possessive over Greg, he didn't need to be, Greg had Ian for that. They weren't exactly what teenage girls would label as a 'cute couple' but they did seem to fit, and they complemented each other and fair amount as well, not to mention that as the relationship progressed Sherlock had noticed Greg's cut down on his anti-depressant pills. He had taken to calling Greg 'dad' as well by now, however only to his face and less frequently when Ian was around, he doubted that he would ever call Ian 'dad' as well, and despite meeting Sam Lestrade again on a few weekends he knew that he would probably never think of the young man as his brother, possibly a friend or one of those relatives that you talk to at family gatherings but never make to effort keep in contact any other time.

Flicking through the pages of _The Hobbit _for what felt like the millionth time now, he listened with dwindling interest to snippets of the conversation between Greg and Ian now and again, watching the sky outside grow gradually darker and darker, the buildings casting longer shadows across the street, drifting in and out of daydreams.

"Did you hear about that Sherlock?" Greg's voice dragged him out of a particularly amusing thought.

"Hmm?"

"Carl Powers?"

Carl Powers. Yes he had heard about that, probably everybody in the school had. Swimming incident, he had suffered some unexplained fit in a pool. Drowned, no explanation. It had come as quite a big shock to Sherlock, nice Carl; happy, cheerful Carl, Carl that had been his friend in primary school. Dead, gone, snuffed out like a light. It had happened in the half term and had come as a rather sharp blow to the whole year upon returning to school with the prospect of exams fast approaching. It was a tragic waste of such a young and talented boy, that was what the teachers had said anyway, and for once Sherlock actually agreed with them. He had liked Carl, so much that he almost felt guilty for his curiosity into the accident, almost. To his knowledge Carl had no reports of any pre-existing medical conditions, besides eczema of which it was a well known fact that he suffered badly from. It didn't seem to fit how an apparently healthy boy – and champion swimmer – would just drown in a pool. "Yeah." He answered simply.

"Yeah I got the investigation." Ian said, raising his voice for Sherlock to hear.

Instantly getting to his feet, Sherlock was over by Ian in mere seconds, his voice suddenly filled with an urgency not previously present "have you got anything?"

Ian looked taken aback by Sherlock's rather bizarre response "not really, it's a tricky investigation, kid, we haven't really got much to go on, just eye witness reports mostly."

"Who?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock, that's confidential, I can't say. But it's nothing to worry about, you don't need to stress about the whole thing, the doctors wrote his death off as accidental, so there's nothing that you need to be concerned about."

Sherlock stared at him in utter indignation, rolling his eyes.

"I'm sorry kid," Ian shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking humourlessly "I can't tell you anything."

"It's ok." Sherlock shrugged, pretending not to care. It most certainly was not ok. Returning to his seat Sherlock slumped down on the sofa, pulling his phone out of his pocket and noticing that he had two unread messages, one from John and one from an unknown number, opening the one from John first he smiled a little seeing what it said _Earth goes around the Sun, Moon goes around the Earth. Good luck with your physics tomorrow. I love you – JW _he'd answer it later, opening the other message instead:

_Midnight, the pool where little Carl died x_

Sherlock frowned down at the message, running the words over in his head, several different possibilities sprung to mind. It could be Anderson, but no it couldn't, Powers and Anderson had been friends, and though Anderson _was_ an insufferable twat he was by no means twisted enough to mock the death of a friend, so nobody from school – student or teacher – could have done this since Carl had been so well liked by everybody. Somebody was sick enough to play a practical joke like this? Apparently so, though it was unlikely. And then it dawned on him, his stomach instantly knotting in dread. He had a feeling that somebody was finished biding their time.

Sherlock said very little for the remainder of the evening, sitting on the sofa with his knees drawn up under his chin, counting the minutes. Greg asking him if he was ok several times, to which he would just nod and fake the best smile that he could, and once Ian had gone he excused himself to bed, just regaining his position in his darkened bedroom, listening intently to Greg moving around on the other side of the door. Greg didn't go to bed until well past half ten, at which point switching off all the lights in the flat, the crack of light underneath the door being extinguished so that Sherlock couldn't even see his own hand in front of his eyes, drawing back the curtains to let in the dimly lit glare of the streetlamps, casting long orange shadows across his room. When he could hear the faint sounds of Greg's breathing in the next room, meaning he was asleep, he slowly got to his feet attempting to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Greg, or disturb the idiots that live downstairs, opening and closing the doors carefully and tiptoeing out of his room down the small dark hallway to the front door of the flat and easing his way out through the door, hoping against hope that Greg would not awake to find him missing, taking long delicate strides to the stairs. Around by the side of the flats there was a bike shed in which Greg kept his bike, Sherlock did not have a bike of his own nor had he owned one for a long time but he knew the basic functions of how it worked and was more or less certain that he would be able to ride it reasonably well. Retrieving the code from where he had stored it in his memory and wheeling the bike out, checking the time, only 11:07, he could get there in time.

Finding the bike a little harder to get to grips with than he had first anticipated, he shakily managed to steer himself down the road, he knew where the pool was because it was only a short walk's distance from Bart's so it didn't take him very long to navigate and unsteadily cycle himself there through the dark almost deserted streets. There was a bike rack just inside the front door of the pool – which had been left ajar – Sherlock left the bike chained up there, hesitantly making his way to the pool area, suddenly very aware of the fact that he was unarmed in any way and therefore unprotected and highly venerable, his heart pounding in his throat, half in anticipation and half in pure ridged fear.

The reflection of the light onto the water danced on the wall, blue and shimmering, and Sherlock just about managed to steady his breathing "You wanted to see me?" he called, the echo of his own voice cascading and recasting off the walls so it sounded as if there were several other Sherlock's in the room.

Hearing a childish sounding giggle he flicked around, not seeing anything for several moments before a white face emerged from the shadows, how long had he been waiting there for him? "Hello Sherlock."

"Hello Jim." Sherlock breathed, standing his ground, his eyes never leaving his godfathers face.

"I'll admit," Jim began, clicking hid tongue loudly against his teeth "I wasn't sure that you would actually come."

"Neither was I." Sherlock admitted in a horse whisper "it was you?"

"_What_ was me Sherl?" Jim grinned, strolling towards Sherlock, his hands in his pockets.

"You killed Carl." He explained, more of a statement than a question.

Strolling ever closer to the boy, Jim shrugged his shoulders, brushing off the death of Sherlock's former friend as if it were only a small loss "I never liked Carl." He said as if it was a decent explanation or motive for causing his death "He kept laughing at me, I had to stop him laughing."

Racking his brains Sherlock could remember vaguely the first and only time that Carl had come to play at his house on Baker Estate, they had been about nine years old and he had come there without Jim's knowledge and when the man himself had arrived back home he had been absolutely furious, which Carl had found absolutely hilarious. Sherlock had been slapped hard across one side of his face that the force had actually knocked him over and he had been bruised on one side of his body for a whole week afterwards from where he had hit the wall on his way down. "is this a confession?" he questioned in a lower tone than before.

"Maybe." Jim said, giggling again.

"You killed somebody." Sherlock told him bluntly, as if it weren't already obvious enough, still trying to wrap his head around it himself "You killed a sixteen year old boy."

"I had to stop him laughing." The man repeated, standing about two foot away from Sherlock now "I can stop a lot of things Sherlock, I don't think that you fully appreciate that." Exhaling rather heavily, he tilted his head to the side, surveying the boy with a vacant curiosity in his eyes, as if he were seeing him properly for the very first time "I could stop John Watson too," grinning as Sherlock's breath hitched "Stop his heart... just like little Carl's." Giggling again at what Sherlock could only guess must have been a flash of desperation across his face "He's in there, isn't he?" he hissed, flicking his tongue against his teeth, prodding the centre of Sherlock's chest, directly above his heart "I'll burn it." He added bluntly, as if he was offering rather than threatening "I'll burn it out of you."

"I don't have one." Sherlock hissed.

Tilting his head a few millimetres, he smiled, a humourless smile, the type of smile that resembled the painted of a clown "We both know that's not true, don't we Sherlock?"

"What do you want Jim?" Sherlock questioned the thing that he had been wondering since the beginning.

"You." He answered simply, exhaling heavily again "To come back home."

"No."

Smirking again, Jim reached for Sherlock's hand. His first instinct was to recoil as quickly as possible, he had a feeling that he knew what Jim was going to do and he did not want him to, nether the less Sherlock stood his ground, letting his arm grow slack and John took his hand in his, inspecting it with child-like curiosity, lifting it up to eye level and taking hold of the sleeve, slowly easing it up Sherlock's white forearm, smiling as if in sick twisted pleasure at what his eyes encountered "Johnny Boy doesn't know about _that _now, does he?"

Snatching his arms away he yanked the sleeve back down his forearm on which were several half-healed cuts. It wasn't like he _couldn't _cope, he had stopped more or less, but he was still prone to triggering thoughts, they still played on his mind every day, at nights especially when he lay alone in the dark with only his thoughts he would sometimes run his fingers along his arms, thighs and stomach, feeling the damaged skin and scar tissue. He was trying, he really was. And most days he got through it ok, some days he struggled, it had just been one of those days, that was all, they would fade just like the rest, he just didn't want anybody to think that he was going back again, he wasn't, he had just had a blip "No." He answered bluntly, glaring with intent burning dislike for the man that stood before him.

Making a noise that sounded like the ghost of a laugh, Jim turned, shoving his hands back in his pockets and began walking slowly away, still talking to Sherlock as he went, the boy himself stayed stock still, completely ridged "I'm bored Sherlock. I'm bored of waiting, you can't hide away from me forever." Departing he left Sherlock alone in the room, the lights still dancing off the walls and his words ringing in the boy's ears.

**And chance of a little review to motivate me? **


	26. The Haze of a Drunken Hour

**Hey guys **

**Well sorry about taking such a long time to update, real life kind of got in the way a little bit, I won't bore you with the details, but it's all alright now, so hopefully should be back to my regular writing routine. **

**Yeah so I also recently went back and re-read some of the chapters at the beginning of this and ended up actually physically cringing at how bad my initial chapters were, so much so that I may have to go back and edit/re-write a few of them just to make me feel better about this; however I won't do that before I actually finish this story before I go back – if I even end up doing that – because it'll be too time consuming and it'll basically kill all remaining motivation that I have for this fic. **

**Trigger warning for sexual abuse and depression relapse, plus past-self harm and underage drinking (just in case) **

**Love Micky xxxx**

**Chapter 25 **

Sherlock did not understand why these people were not revising for their exams, school would soon be finishing and there was still a mountain of test papers and coursework to get over and done with, though in reality most of these people, Sherlock was fairly certain, would be failing them all anyway. In spite of this, several students in Sherlock's maths class had thrown a party for the year 11s to celebrate the - almost - end of the year, and since ultimately Sherlock couldn't care less whether he saw them any of them once school had ended, he thought he would go, of course he hadn't exactly been invited, but then again neither had most of the people there, and his decision to go was one that he was now greatly regretting, standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the living room, filled with people brushing past him, some with plastic cups in their hands, and a few even with whole bottles filled with liquid Sherlock was certain would be giving them severe headaches the next morning, the bright flashing lights that somebody had hung up illuminating the room, with some crappy rap song unnecessarily painfully thumping in the background. Nobody was speaking to him; nobody had spoken to him for the entirety of the night, in fact nobody had paid him the slightest bit of attention at all, apart from a handful of people gazing at him like he were some sort of stain on their shoe, a clear sign that he did not belong there, and it would probably have been for the best if he hadn't come at all. Though really that was how a lot people looked at him in most situations, so therefore it was hardly out of the ordinary for him to feel uncomfortable, like he stuck out like a sore thumb. He'd had a few drinks, and though it was hardly as if he had never tasted alcohol before, he was what his peers referred to as a 'light weight' and he was already tipsy from the little he had drunk, and his sense were already beginning to betray him and it could only get worse. Why anybody would possibly feel the need to drink for pleasure purposes he would never understand. Unless he was just abnormal in the belief that being dizzy and disorientated with a significantly decreased amount of common sense could be un-pleasurable. In a clumsy attempt to avoid hangover he had managed to find himself a glass of water and had already made an attempt to visit the bathroom, but the door had been barricaded by a small pond of liquid-y vomit that he had been rather unwilling to wade through. Flicking his wrist around in front of his eyes to check the time, he managed to make out the dark blurred outline of the clock face reading 10:47. Upon entering he had made the promise to himself that unless persuaded otherwise – which looked unlikely as so few people were even making the effort to look at him – he would leave by eleven, so he would only have to stand this for another thirteen minutes before he could leave.

"Hey." Recoiling instantly from whoever had spoken, he felt a cold splash of water slosh over the rim of his glass over his hand and splattering onto his jeans, blinking ferociously as his head spun up to see the girl who had approached him, who grinning in rather obvious amusement "You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" she asked. She was vaguely familiar, and she would have been pretty looking if it weren't for her face being caked in make-up, not to mention her lack of decent clothing. She was older than him, he could tell that much, under the influence his deductions were much slower and his memory not nearly as sharp as it would normally be, struggling to retrieve any previous memories he might have of her, simply nodding in response to her question "I'm Eva." She explained. Then he remembered her, Eva Blackwell, yes that was her, an ex-student of Barts who must have left about two years ago now and had gone onto college somewhere. She had never talked to him when they were at the same school, so that fact that she was approaching him now left him completely perplexed. She couldn't be approaching him because she genuinely wanted to, nobody in their right mind would, he reminded himself rather bitterly. She had to be on some kind of bet, so something similar to that at least, dare maybe, that was probably the most likely option.

"Hi." Throwing her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, his voice sounding rather obviously placid and uninterested, avoiding looking directly at her, becoming increasingly uncomfortable by the second of her roaming eyes watching him with mild curiosity.

"You're sixteen, right?" she checked, shifting uncomfortably closer to him, licking her dry lips.

"Um." Sherlock really was at a loss for what to say, trying to make sense of all the thoughts painfully racing around his intoxicated brain. His head hurt. And this girl – Eva – was not helping in the slightest. He had no idea what she was trying to infer, but he felt an unexplainable overwhelming sense of discomfort twinge in the pit of his stomach. Nodding nonchalantly, his face completely void of all emotion, he awkwardly shuffled his feet, his gaze flicking to the floor.

"Hey, are you ok?" she asked, not sounding genuinely concerned as to his well being in the slightest, he eyes glinting with a kind of manic glee that sent unpleasant shivers running down his spine, hoping against hope that she would just go away and leave him alone, maybe if he just ignored her she would just get bored and leave, or maybe if he started deducing her she'd think that he was an obnoxious prick and tell him to piss off, that was the typical reaction his deductions received, people hated that he could read them like open books. Opening his mouth he tried to begin, but his head began to throb again "come on!" she grabbed hold of his hand, leaving him no choice but for her to lead him away from his solitary corner and into the main room "here," taking his water from his slack fingers and thrusting a plastic cup into his hand, nodding eagerly as if to tell him to go ahead and drink, but raising the cup to his lips and taking a quick gulp, he nearly spluttered as what appeared to be vodka burnt in his throat.

She grinned, apparently pleased with herself, drinking form her own cup, less phased by the alcohol. Whatever bet or dare she was going through with she definitely seemed to be winning it, if indeed that was her intention, which Sherlock was doubting more and more with every passing second. His fingers were beginning to tremble now, closing his eyes tight as if he were wishing away everything that was happening. He didn't want to be here at all, why had he even come in the first place? At this very second, this was the last place in the world that he wanted to be; something was very, very wrong about this whole situation, and the ever increasing throbbing in his brain was making him even more confused and disorientated as she egged him into downing the cup, quickly re-filling it, the liquid sloshing in his mouth and burning in his throat. He needed his water back, blinking hard in a fruitless attempt to rectify his fuzzy vision.

"I... I think I should go..."

"Oh don't go!" Eva protested, and he was shocked at how close her voice suddenly sounded to his ear, she hadn't been that close the whole time, had she? She couldn't have been... when had she moved?

Stumbling and tripping over his own feet in an attempt to put a more comfortable distance between himself and this girl, who really was now beginning to scare him, flinching as if she were attacking him when he grabbed his hand to try and pull him back to her, unintentionally digging her talon-like fingernails into his soft flesh, tearing at his skin slightly. She must have either not noticed this, or simply refused to acknowledge it because she neither released his wrist nor made any attempt at an apology. And within seconds he could feel her hot breath tickling his neck, sending unnaturally icy shivers through his whole body, resisting a strong urge to shove her away from him, only on the grounds that she was intoxicated though, instead attempting to prize himself away from her as gently as he could under the circumstances. She wasn't having any of it, backing them up against the wall and latching her mouth with harsh force to his neck, scraping her teeth against the skin, though not at all of John did it, this was messy and forceful and dominating to the point where he felt completely and utterly hopeless "No." He hissed, struggling to escape, but she had him pinned between herself and the wall, and he was forcefully reminded of when he was ten years old, how helpless he had felt them, how dominated and trapped and vulnerable he had felt then. He had screamed until his throat was raw; he could scream now, but nobody would come, nobody had come then and nobody would come now, nobody ever came. He was alone, completely on his own, stuck between this girl and the wall "No." He protested a little louder this time, and for a split second she paused, and taking advantage of that moment he ducked down, only just escaping her momentarily weak hold on him, stumbling.

She looked confused, her pupils widely dilated, a crease in her forehead "What?"

"I – I don't want..."

Apparently catching his drift, she actually laughed "Oh come on Sherl." grinning incredulously as if to tell him that he was just being a silly little boy who didn't know what he wanted "it's not a big deal."

He couldn't run away, judging by how dizzy he was he was almost certain that he didn't have full control of his limbs and was likely to fall over if he tried to run. But he had to get away somehow. Turning away, she almost caught him on the arm again, but he wrenched it away from her fingers, making haste to get as far away from her as he could, barely dodging a gaggle of boys at the door who threw insults at him, their words slurred and muffled by the buzzing in Sherlock's ears. Only just managing to get outside the house unharmed, his foot promptly caught on a dip in the pavement and he stumbled, his vision swimming, only just about managing to prevent himself falling flat over, composing himself as he attempted as best he could, to walk in a straight line.

He couldn't remember where he was, through he did know that he was about a mile away from Greg's house, but he couldn't go back there, not in this state anyway, he didn't want to face Greg's disapproving eye – in the morning perhaps, but not now, not after what had just happened. Mrs Hudson – before he had told her about her husband – had always taken him in whatever state he was in, he had gone to her once so drunk that he couldn't even stand, and another time when he had been _experimenting_ – only for lack of better words – and had collapsed in the gutter, she had picked him up and helped him to her sofa with him screaming inaudible nonsense about rats and snakes the whole way. She might take him in again, after all it had been him who had cut off contact with her after he had told her, purely through fear that she would hate him after what he had told her about her husband, most people hated him after the truths he had told them about themselves and their loved ones, but she had moved recently, not far though because he still saw her around the supermarket that she had shopped in before, but in his currently disorientated state he would probably be unable to deduce where it was exactly she was now living. He would have to go to John's house, if he could remember how to navigate himself there after all. He hated to do this to John, and he didn't want him to see him like this, pathetic and helpless, that was the last thing he wanted John to think of him, but he didn't have a choice, it was either that or sleep on the pavement, and he was pretty sure that John, being the type of person that he was, would much rather Sherlock came to him than wake up outside on a cold stone floor. He blinked hard, trying to make sense of the dark shapes and shadows shifting before his eyes. Delving back into his hazy memory from earlier, he knew roughly where he was, the houses around him on the street looked vaguely familiar. Vaguely. Stumbling over his own feet he began to walk, his legs felt rather oddly numb and his brain was much too fuzzy and clouded for him to actually be able to think straight, but putting one foot in front of the other was enough to handle. There was a small corner shop down the end of the street that he definitely knew couldn't be more than half a miles walk from John's house. It was freezing cold considering that it was practically summer time, though after all it was British summer time, and for Britain that usually meant there being perhaps a week of heat and sun, and two months of either dim watery light or clouds and showers and that was about all there was. The cold air bit into his exposed skin, hands and face, his hands were trembling still, and he drew his limbs back up into his body, holding tightly onto the side of his chest, the distinctive feel of his own ribs beneath his fingers absolutely disgusting. _How _would anybody want him? They would either have to seriously intoxicated, disturbed or have some ulterior motive – Sherlock was almost sure that Eva would have to be at least two of those possibilities. Only possible – logical, in fact – explanation. Stumbling, he was only just able to stay on his feet as he rounded the corner into John's street. John's house was up in the middle of the street, and momentarily panicking, he could only just remember which house it was, nearly falling over by the door, bashing his fist hard against the door, which judging by the shooting pain in his knuckle probably impacted harder on his fist than on the actual wood of the door, flinching his smarting fingers again. Waiting outside, he quickly made a half-hearted attempt at straightening out his rumpled clothes, which looked as if they had been slept in the night before, just trying to make himself at least _look _mildly presentable, even if he was tipsy and slow.

"Bloody hell!" was the greeting he received from a tired looking John only in a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms with his sandy hair sticking up at rather odd angles, opened the door, looking rather disgruntled, "Do you have any bloody idea..." and then he seemed to actually see him, the words dying in his throat, his eyes darting up and down the boy's body, which was leant up against the door frame, his head hung low, half out of shame and half out of lack of effort to lift it "are you ok?"

Sherlock raised his head a little, trying to give him a look of positive encouragement, but the smile wouldn't come, instead feeling bile rise in his throat and his legs give way, John was just about able to catch him as he sagged to the floor, retching and spluttering as liquid-y vomit spewed over the door mat.

John's hand found his clammy face, fumbling for his temperature he heard the older man sigh above him "You've been drinking, haven't you?" he heard John say, though sounding more sceptical than critical "Come on, let's get you inside." Strong arms hauled him to his feet, and John half-pushed, half-carried him over the threshold into the warm, dark hallway, only illuminated by the streetlamps glare from outside. Flicking a light switch as the living room polled with dim light.

"I didn't..." Sherlock tried to say through his spluttering and painful coughing "I – I didn't mean..."

"Shh." John soothed, sitting him down on the sofa and kneeling down in front of him so they were more or less at eyes level "Don't worry about it, I'll clean it up in a minutes, it's ok Sherlock, really." Sighing hr raised his hand to the boy's face, tenderly running the back of his knuckles across his hollow cheek "You're more important than a wrecked door mat. You're not hurt are you?"

Sherlcok shook his head slowly from side to side. It was true that apart from his drunken state, physically no harm had come to him at all, apart from several scuffs that had been the result of dizzy clumsiness "I am never drinking again." He said in a small but decisive voice "Ever."

John actually chuckled then, brushing the curls that formed Sherlock's fringe with his fingers away from his clammy forehead "Yeah I've been there, said that before so many times. You'll get used to it, it's really not that bad." Smiling a little, he locked his fingers briefly with Sherlock's long sweaty ones "You're ok though, right?"

"Do I _look _ok?" Sherlock croaked, raising his bloodshot gaze to John's face.

"No, actually you look like shit." John shrugged, at least he was honest "How much did you drink?"

How much had he drunk? Mostly vodka, some beer, some other stuff that he wasn't actually entirely sure about, and he was almost certain that there had been some whisky mixed in with some of it somewhere during the night, and then of course the half glass of water that had been taken from him. It wasn't so much the drink that was concerning him at that point though "I'm a lightweight." He answered simply.

John narrowed his eyes, but chose to ignore him "Well ok, go to the toilet then you might feel a bit better, and you can sleep here tonight. Does Greg know where you are?" she added, checking just in case.

Sherlock shook his head again, relieved at not having to answer the question. He was guessing that Greg neither knew, nor cared where exactly he got to, just so long as he made it back unharmed and in one piece the next day.

"Ok, don't worry, I'll call him. Come on." Patting him lightly on the back, he took hold of his arm and gently as he could, eased him to his feet. It did half look as if he was about to fall over, swaying from side to side looking dazed. It was almost amusing. Almost. Making his way to the bathroom, John picked up the home phone, calling the third number on the speed dial, which was Greg, he knew of the unwritten rule not to call past nine but he didn't particularly care in the moment, and the phone rang for almost thirty seconds before a tired and disgruntled sounding Greg answered.

"_Hello?" _

"Hey Greg, it's John."

This fact did not seem to lighten Greg's mood in the slightest, replying in an annoyed sounding voice that John could tell had been accompanied by a roll of his eyes "_Yes John? You do realise that it's nearly half eleven, don't you_?"

"Yeah I know, I'm sorry about that," John apologised, lowering his voice "It's just that Sherlock's here."

He could almost hear the confused cogs ticking away inside Greg's head, as he began to say in a much slower voice than before "But... I mean, wasn't he staying over at his friends...?"

Greg had believed that? John scoffed, rolling his own eyes now. Greg had actually believed that Sherlock was staying at a friend's? The closest thing that Sherlock had to a friend in his peer group was several mildly friendly acquaintances, and even the few that did like him hardly ever spoke to him from fear of being victimised for being seen associating with Sherlock. Come to think of it, where had Sherlock been exactly? He couldn't have been in a bar or a club, party was the most likely option, nearly end of year celebration party no doubt, John could remember going to parties like that himself when he had been the same age as Sherlock, he'd had his first kiss at one of those parties... along with other things "Well he'd here now, in case you were wondering, and I think that it would probably be best if he stayed here tonight, he's a bit out of it."

"_Oh,"_ Greg answered slowly, only just masking the suspicion in his voice "_Well... yeah that's ok. Can you put him on a bus or something tomorrow morning, I need him back for flat shopping in Denmark Hill."_

"Yeah no problem." John let out a relieved sign on the lack of interrogation on Greg's part. John had almost forgotten about Greg selling his flat, him and some friend of his were going to flat share he was guessing, taking Sherlock with him to go and live further into the city, at least that was what John was assuming anyway, as Greg wasn't going to be coming back to Bart's the next year, and with any luck John wouldn't be either "Yeah I tell him, thanks." Hanging up the phone he turned and started at Sherlock standing in the doorway, leant up against the frame, his eyelids fluttering so much that it looked as if he were having difficulty even keeping them open.

"I am never drinking again." He repeated, sounding even more defiant that previously, no a single hint of emotion in his voice.

"Sure, sure." John answered gesturing for him to come and join him on the sofa, which he did slowly, like he was trying to gain full control over his limbs, flinging himself down next to John. John tentatively shifting a little closer to the boy, being as careful as he could not to disturb him. It didn't take long at all for Sherlock to drop off, eventually Sherlock fell partially into the category of sleepy drunk. His glassy grey-blue eyes fluttered closed and his lips parting, it was no wonder, he looked absolutely exhausted and he was acting quite distressed about something as well.

Smiling a little down at the boy, John took hold Sherlock's jumper, pulling it up over his head, he'd get too hot and sweaty during the night with it on, and he was already clammy enough. Underneath John noticed he was wearing a Smith's t-shirt, which caused the corners of his mouth to pull in a smile. And then he stopped, the smile falling off his face as quickly as it had appeared. Those cuts had definitely not been there the last time he had seen Sherlock's bare arm, they didn't exactly look fresh, bordering or between a week and a fortnight or so old, in the latter phase of fading, and they didn't look particularly deep either, there were probably about eight to twelve that adorned that pale white skin several centimetres or so above the pulse point. Sherlock hadn't told him about those...? Frenzied panic shot through him like ice, what else wasn't Sherlock telling him? He had completely failed to notice that Sherlock had returned to his old destructive habits, even if it had only been once or twice. He knew that he wasn't eating as much as he had recently, he could be smoking more, or taking drugs again. No, Greg would have told him if that was happening, Greg might be slightly gullible on occasions but he wasn't an idiot - most of the time anyway - plus that friend of his was a police man and would know if anything dodgy was happening under his roof. Inhaling deeply in a futile attempt to steady his breathing, John tucked Sherlock's scarred arm away, up by his side, so that the scars were only barely visible, and leaning down planted a quick kiss on the boy's forehead. He knew, he knew that Sherlock was hiding something from him, something big that was affecting him. John felt chills run up his spine at the thought of what it could be, he almost would rather not know. He had promised Mycroft, and in fact Sherlock himself several times, that he would mend little broken Sherlock, he had promised himself the he would protect Sherlock and make sure that he didn't come to any further harm, that was what Sherlock deserved. But John didn't really know if he _could _protect Sherlock anymore, and he couldn't protect the boy from himself.

**For this chapter I'm wondering if we could make it to 200 reviews, only 6 away, it really would make my day if anybody would maybe leave just a line or two comments. Thanks guys **


	27. At Amber

**Hey guys **

**Too much has been going on for me at the moment (mostly school work related) to really have a regular writing routine, and I am sorry but school comes first because bottom line is that if I don't do well in my exams I fail at everything for the rest of my life. Sorry about that little splash of pessimism, not the best way to start off a chapter. **

**I tried with this chapter, I really did, and I wrote and re-wrote it and could never get it quite right, smut is hard to write, you guys will have to settle with fairly un-explicit stuff because I really just don't have the time or the energy to continuously try to write stuff that just turns out not very good anyway **

**So yeah, I won't bore you anymore, on with the chapter. Enjoy! **

**I love you all for continually putting up with me and this fic, only 1 more chapter after this one and then an epilogue **

**Micky xxxxx **

The last day of school. It was something that most teenagers counted down to, no more teachers, no more exams, and no more lessons, just freedom for a whole three months, until they returned to continue their studies, whatever that may consist of. To a certain blue eyed boy in the middle of his exam hall however, it meant something different; firstly – and significantly less importantly – it meant spending whole days alone in the flat with nothing to do but think, he would be completely alone come the end of the day, his make-do father and his partner would be remaining at school and work for another six weeks, and being the incredibly antisocial person that he was he would most likely sit in the flat all day and be bored, he couldn't exactly go out and have fun, hang out with friends or meet people, having proved that he was terrible at making friends both to himself and others a million times over, so there really wasn't any point in trying anymore.

But there was one good thing about coming to the end of the year, well moreover two things that were strongly linked, he had grown quite a lot in the space of a year, he wasn't quite the emaciated loser with cuts and scratches all up his arms and legs anymore, he was stronger now, he ate better, not brilliantly but definitely better despite not seeing the whole point in three square meals a day, but if it would make John happy then he would do it; and he only had a few cuts as well that were quickly fading, that was something that he was happy about, before the start of this year he had been so dependent on the pain that came from slicing his own skin open on a daily basis that he had almost not been able to focus properly on anything else from craving, he had better self control now, now he could look at a razor or pen knife and not feel the need to open old wounds. Well, most of the time anyway. He still had slips of course, but he had definitely changed. John had told him that, just to show him how much better he was now, and honestly Sherlock would most probably have guessed that John had been training to be a therapist of psychiatrist rather and a surgeon. The end of the year also meant that he was closer than ever to his eighteenth birthday, meaning he and his soon-to-be ex biology teacher could be together. Eighteen months, eighteen months and it would all be over, they had already got through ten... just about.

Sherlock's last exam had been English, it was a two hour exam that he had managed to complete in the first 50 minutes and so had been sitting in the same seat for nearly an hour in the hot sweaty hall with nothing to do while every other student in the hall scribbled away feverishly at their papers in a desperate attempt to cram as many smart-sounding words into their work as they could, while he just sat there twiddling his pen between his fingers. He had noticed all the last two weeks of exams every single seat in which Carl Powers would have sat, and couldn't help feeling a pang of guilt each time. He knew that Carl's death was by no means his fault, and that feeling sad about it wasn't going to bring him back, but Carl should be there, sitting his desk and taking his exams like every other student in that hall. What might have happened to Carl? Sherlock would just sit and think sometimes about a bright boy like that and everything that he could have become just being meaninglessly thrown away, but thinking like that wasn't going to make it better, nothing would. Caring about him wouldn't save him.

It was strange to think that after this exam John wouldn't be his teacher anymore. Sherlock would be leaving Bart's anyway after this exam, his year having already going through tearful leaving assemblies that he had found unbelievably tedious and trivial, Greg and Ian had decided to move more central into the city as Greg had been offered a job teaching in the Department of Mathematics at King's College, so Sherlock was going with them. Greg having finally obtained a foster care license, Sherlock was even considering calling up his brother to tell him to allow him to stay in Greg's care. Sherlock had lived in London for most of his life, and yet he had never actually properly _seen _the city, and most of what he had seen was just crappy estate, other mediocre housing and state school. Maybe living in the centre he would actually finally be able to understand the appeal of the city, what all the fuss was about, because after all he was quite an observant person, Canterbury of Oxford, yeah he could see the appeal in that, but not London, not yet.

Sighing, he let his eyes wander, flicking from one exam invidulator to the next, and couldn't help but ponder what skill-set was actually required for the job of exam invdulator. They did absolutely nothing apart from watch teenagers take tests for hours. He supposed it was like the saying: 'those who can't do, teach', and apparently those who couldn't teach were exam invidulators. What must it be like in their funny little brains? It must be so boring. Though in comparison to his, anybody's brain must be boring, and though it did make him sound like a narcissist it was probably true.

"Ok everybody." The teacher's voice rang out, shattering the silence "The exam is over, if you wouldn't mind remaining in silence while we take in your papers."

...

John Watson was panicking. Not just worried panicking, full on bordering on anxiety attack panicking. And John was no stranger to anxiety attacks, having been prone to them as a teenager while Harry practically drank herself half to death instead. He could actually feel beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Was resigning always going to be like this? If yes, then he was never getting another job ever again. The head teacher, Mr Gregson, had an office near to school reception. He and John had talked on several occasions and he definitely seemed like a decent enough guy, though appeared much older than his forty-five years, the stress of trying to control the school looking like it would most likely be the death of him. John couldn't help feeling almost like a student himself again now, standing outside the head teacher's office as if he had done something wrong. He had written a semi-formal letter explaining the reasons for him resigning - about half of which was complete bullshit – and about how he had enjoyed his time teaching at Barts yada yada yada. You had to give at least six weeks notice in order to leave the school, and giving this letter in would hopefully mean that come the end of the year for the other teachers would come the end of John's time as a teacher period.

"Come on Watson." He hissed under his breath, mentally kicking himself "just go." Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, he wrapped hard on the door with his knuckles, hearing tried consent on the other side of the door, opening the door poking his head around the frame, attempting a smile that probably made him look like he was in pain "Hi Toby."

"Oh hi John." Gregson smiled, apparently surprised to see him "I thought you'd be on of those goddamn examiners."

"Not quite." John relaxed a little, coming fully into the room and closing the door behind him.

"Well, what brings you here?" he asked, offering John the seat opposite his desk, then pausing "No more fights between students I hope?" he asked, the tone in his voice rather considerably harsher than only moments previous "What was it Alexander Anderson and that Sherlock something."

"Holmes." John corrected him, before getting down to the business at hand "And no nothing like that." He assured him, sitting down and leaning over the desk to hand him the letter."

Gregson sighed, his breath wheezing no doubt from the substantial amount of tobacco he smoked on a daily basis, and taking the envelope in his callous fingers, glancing back up at John before opening the envelope, his face visibly dropping as his eyes darted from one side of the paper to the other and back and forth "resigning?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Gregson sighed, folding the letter in his hand and fixing John with a rather intent and serious look "John, are you sure?"

Shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, John could feel his hands grow increasingly clammy, brushing his palms against the legs of his trousers before balling them into fists, determinately not breaking eye contact "Yes sir."

Exhaling rather heavily, the faint wiff of tobacco breath expelling from his lips, Gregson leant forward on his desk, placing the paper on the wood directly between them, looking curiously at John almost as if he were sizing him up "Ok, I'll figure it out."

Letting out a sigh of relief that was probably much more obvious than maybe it should have been, John actually felt a smile begin to pull at the corners of his mouth "Thank you sir." Offering his hand over the desk.

Accepting the hand in a firm clasp they shook "I want you to stay here until the end of the term, yes?"

"Yes, of course." His smile expanding, bowing his head in thanks, getting to his feat and exiting the room. He could have sworn that he could leap for joy , but refraining from doing so with great difficulty, walking as calmly as he could, a newly established spring in his step. Checking his watch, he saw that Sherlock would have already been let out, and throwing his rucksack over his shoulder made his way down through the school to the gate. Sherlock was standing up against the wall waiting for him by the time he got down, and John was itching to just grab him and haul him up into a great hug, but he couldn't, not just outside the school in broad daylight. Sherlock caught his gaze from about ten yards away, and instead of standing and waiting for him, turned and began to walk reasonably slowly. This was the system that they had devised together over text the previous week, and Sherlock was rather pleased with it himself, they could still walk together but without being suspected of anything, which was very difficult while Sherlock was still in uniform, and so far it had been successful, they would simply walk a short distance apart, on in front of the other.

Walking in silence for some distance, familiar faces began to thin, John began to quicken his pace in order to catch up with Sherlock, who realised what he was doing before he had a chance to catch up with him, walking faster himself and turning to fix John with a confused look which John didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to, almost jogging to catch Sherlock around the arm.

"What the_ hell_ are you doing?" the boy demanded, keeping his voice at a low hiss to avoid attracting attention, scowling angrily at John

"I wanted to walk with you." John explained quite honestly, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant manner.

"Yeah well we can't exactly do that now, can we?" Sherlock snapped back, rather unnecessarily harshly, making a half hearted attempt to prize his arm from John's hold.

"Hey, what's wrong with you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me!"Sherlock groaned in exasperation, rolling his eyes in the typical teenager fashion, really wrenching his arm from John's grip now, and turning on his heel as if to stalk away.

"Sherlock!"

Turning back around, the boy fixed him with a cold scowl ,raising his eyebrows in a way that told John that what he had to say had better be important otherwise it was simply a waste of time "What?"

Shirking under Sherlock's icy gaze, John actually shuffled his feet out of embarrassment "I- I did it." He said meekly.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Sherlock circled his wrist as a signal to elaborate.

"I resigned."

Sherlock's jaw dropped, his blue eyes widening in shock and his arms falling limply back to his sides "I- _what?"_ Sherlock Holmes, speechless for a change "Y-you resigned? You actually did it?"

John was unable to prevent the smile returned to his lips and he wanted more than anything in that moment to swoop Sherlock up and spin him around, he really wished he could, but he couldn't even be seen making any kind of physical contact with Sherlock anywhere this close to school, nether the less his fingers itched to just reach up and brush them across Sherlock's cheeks "Yeah, once the end of the year comes then I'll be leaving."

"Jesus." Sherlock breathed, combing his fingers through the curls that made up his fringe, and then smiled, a real genuine warm smile that stretched from ear to ear, and it was such a relief to see him happy that his smile was contagious. Over the last few weeks, possibly even month or two – there was always the possibility that it was just John being paranoid and imagining or exaggerating things that he didn't really need to worry about – but Sherlock had seemed worse, slipping back into old habits, letting the wrong type of thoughts filter slowly back in. Overall, John knew he was better, but inside there had to still be remnants of the broken little boy he had met almost a year ago now, John worried that there might always be, but having studied at medical school – psychology not being his field of study, but he had always prided himself on having basic knowledge of the subject – he was fairly certain that Sherlock would mend, he wouldn't mend quickly, and there was still a lot of progress to be made, but he would at least mend. Maybe when John himself went back to medical school he would do a course in psychology as well.

He wanted to hug him, or at least to reach out and take his hand, kiss his pretty face and not care what anybody else thought. But instead, flicked his head in the direction that they had been walking, and obeying Sherlock's nod of agreement, instead walking side by side though careful to keep at least two foot of distance between them, being wary not to look at one another too much, occasionally saying a few words to each other, but other than that simply walking in silence.

John's street was relatively empty, and John wasn't by nature a particularly sociable person, it had been Mary who was the friendly one, he had just really stood in the background, so he wasn't exactly as well acquainted with his neighbours as maybe one ought to be; but in his situation that was probably an advantage as nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to either him or Sherlock. He was just the man who lived down the road that nobody really talked or paid any attention to who he met or what he did, and it was best left that way.

Finally reaching to take Sherlock by the arm, he half-guided, half-pulled Sherlock down the street to the house, fumbling haphazardly with his keys to the house while Sherlock gazed, perplexed at John's sudden rush. Glancing around quickly again, John pushed the door open, yanking hold of Sherlock by the scruff of his collar and pulling him inside the house, smashing their mouths together, kicking the door closed as he did, his finger twisting most probably rather painfully into the boy's hair, fumbling with his free arm to pull the boy as tight to his chest as was possible, fumbling together like drunk teenagers and giggling at one another's mutual eagerness. Every emotion that had been racing through John's head that day, all the dread and anticipation and fear completely wiped from his brain as he kissed Sherlock. He just wanted to hold this brilliant strange boy in his arms and celebrate how much closer they were now. Was it too much of a cheesy clique to think that it felt like they were the only two people in the world at that very moment in time? Like how every single second of every hour of everyday had been ticking down right to this very moment? The moment when John Watson could freely kiss Sherlock Holmes with nothing to worry about, and with nothing to stop him? And it was just bizarre to think that outside of this house the world was still turning very much the same as it always had, and normal people continued to live their normal lives. Yep, definitely too clique, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

Sherlock drew his head back, a smile flickering on his lips at the little mewl of protest from John, his eyes rather wide in their hollow sockets "Well that was unexpected."

"Well you know me: Mr Unexpected." John replied, quickly leaning to plant a kiss on the tip of Sherlock's nose "Hungry?"

"Not really, no."

"Well that's too bad, because I am." He released Sherlock, twisting to lean against the wall next to him instead, their shoulders bumping together "Oh, how was your last exam?"

Shrugging, Sherlock let his head roll over to the side to look at john "It was alright."

"Yeah, you say that, but you'll be getting straight As and A*s." Exaggerating the tiniest hint of bitterness in his voice.

Catching his drift, the grin on Sherlock's face grew, playing absentmindedly with his fingers "And what's wrong with that?"

Deciding not to answer, John fastened his hand around the front of Sherlock's uniform, pulling his gently in to delicately press their lips together "Come here you idiot."

"You're the idiot." Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by John's lips, apparently very amused by the whole situation.

"Is that your way of telling me that you love me?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Sherlock gave him a look, the type of mock sceptical look that a teenager would use to say 'don't do that, just don't you stupid adult' "I love you." He replied, highly exaggerating each syllable.

John didn't reply, instead flashing a brief smile in Sherlock's direction before turning to the kitchen. Ever since Mary had moved out everything had been a bit of a mess in the house, the kitchen in particular. John was a relatively adequate cook, he had been getting better since living on his own, but his diet was still the furthest from adventurous than it came, but by now he had got used to boiled leftovers and microwavable food. Setting the kettle up, he left it to boil, fetching a half empty pack of almost stale biscuits as Sherlock watched him leant up against the doorway to the kitchen, a small smile playing on his lips "Afternoon tea?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in a playful smile "very British, Mr Watson."

Holding up his index finger to silence him, John shook his head "You never have to call me that again, apart from on results day, so I don't ever want to hear this 'Mr Watson' crap on any other day apart from that day, understood?"

"Yes sir." Toying with the words, exaggerating and twisting it so that it sounded as he had utter a disgusting swear word.

Ignoring him, John poured the boiling water into two mugs he fetched the milk and sugar. John never had sugar in his tea anymore, he had always used to before he had met Mary, Mary and her family had never had sugar in their tea and so whenever any of them had made large batches of tea they had simply forgotten to add sugar into his, and not wanting to be rude John had simply drunk it anyway, and after a while he had grown accustom to not having sugar, and eventually grown sick of the taste of sickly sweat tea. He'd told Sherlock that story before, to which the boy had simply given him a disgruntled look and proceeded to add extra sugar to his own tea, in fact John was sure that if Sherlock hadn't been limited to two spoons then wherever Sherlock went there would be a significant sugar decrease. Adding sugar to one of the mugs, he gestured with a quick flick of his head for Sherlock to take it, which he did, blowing gently on the surface of the liquid, his breath causing a cascade of ripples before sipping it, John handing him a rock solid biscuit. They drank their tea in silence for several minutes. Most people would most probably find this trivial or banal, but he and Sherlock seemed to be a silent agreement that this was something that they both enjoyed doing together, and Sherlock was most likely able to deduce what John was about to say before he had even thought of saying it, and when the silence was broken, it was Sherlock – as predicted – who voiced exactly what John had been thinking.

"I'm not your student anymore now." He said, setting his cup down and shuffling a mere ten centimetres closer to John.

John could feel a smile tugging a the corners of his lips, and discarding his mug on the he side he leant against the kitchen counter, surveying the boy before him "Are you ok?" he asked rather quickly, the palm of his hand absentmindedly finding the boy's shoulder, the tip of his thumb gently ghosting over the corner of his jaw,

"Yes I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" he sounded fine at least, for now anyway.

"Sherlock?" John breathed deeply, deciding that he would chance it "you know that you can trust me?"

"Yes..." Sherlock responded dragging out the word, his eyes narrowed in slight suspicion.

"No Sherlock, I mean that I want you to know that you can tell me anything, and I promise I won't react badly."

"What's this about?" Sherlock asked, apparently having deduced that there was something that they both knew that neither of them had told one another.

"I saw your arm." John admitted quickly, his gaze dropping to the floor, not wanting to see Sherlock reaction – which he was almost certain would be a bad one.

But he was wrong , Sherlock didn't react badly, in fact for about thirty seconds he didn't react at all, as the realisation slowly began to wash over his face "Why... why were you looking?

"It was an accident." John assured him, and something in his voice must have told Sherlock that he was being honest.

"Ah..."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't..."

"No, shh..." Sherlock shook his head, though he didn't look angry, which John supposed was a good sign "I was just..."

"Bad day?" John chanced, finally looking up and re-initiating eye contact.

"I suppose you could say that." He added, the tiniest – almost inaudible – hint of guilt in his voice, and he actually smiled then, the smile that John loved, and a proper smile, not forced to fake, smug or sarcastic, but a warm smile, the type of smile that made his blue eyes dance with icy sparks "What?"

"Nothing," John grinned himself now "I just like your smile."

"My smile?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"yeah." Gracing his fingers over the corner of the boy's lips "It's prett-"

"Don't ever call me 'pretty'." Sherlock interrupted him before he could finish, but there was a playfulness to his serious tone, leaning up to press a quick , rather awkward kiss to his ex-teacher's cheek.

Seizing both sides of his face with the palms of his hands John practically crushed his mouth to Sherlock's. He could finally kiss him properly, and he wasn't going to waste that any moment longer. Raking his fingers through Sherlock's curls, the long arms twined around John. John only really noticed now how much he had been holding back before, he hadn't really noticed, or rather must have tricked his brain not to notice, but now it was blatantly obvious that the entire concept of kissing Sherlock Holmes had changed. He supposed that there had been places in each of their heads that had known they were doing something wrong, but all the barriers were gone, all the walls came crashing down, and he felt like a fool for not knowing that he could kiss him like this, in a way that completely wiped his brain of all restraining thoughts, and he wanted more. He was completely hooked and _all _he wanted was more. He was afraid that Sherlock might stop him, delving into the unknown was definitely an alien experience, especially at such a young age, regardless of what the male teenage told itself. But despite everything, if Sherlock didn't want to do anything , then John would respect that, of course he would. It had to be right for both participants otherwise it wouldn't be right for with of them, and that was the last thing that John wanted.

But Sherlock was giving no indications whatsoever to show that he was holding back in the slightest -quite the opposite in fact. Pressing their twined bodies up against the wall "I'm probably going to be really awkward and bad." Sherlock mumbled, barely audible against John's lips, answering his unasked question.

"You couldn't be." John breathed, pulling his head gently away so that their lips were millimetres from touching, taking hold of Sherlock's upper thighs and pulled him closer, despite both of their father forward movements they were both practically shaking from nervousness, leaning to slowly capture the other's lips in another kiss. John gently began to coax Sherlock's mouth open, for Sherlock to allow him access, hands coming to rest of the younger man's hips, hooking his fingers through the waist loops of his black school trousers , dragging his lips off Sherlock's and dragging them down to bite softly down the soft flesh of his neck causing Sherlock to give a rather satisfying, involuntary squirm, gripping rather firmly onto john's biceps "John," uttering the name like a soft moan "I am not doing anything in a hallway."

Rolling his eyes, John had to strongly suppress a laugh, and rather unwillingly break from Sherlock body, taking his hand in his own and twining their fingers together.

Sherlock eyed him in the manner in which a child getting his own way would eye somebody, turning and pulling John up the stairs after him.

When Mary had left she had taken most of her and John's shared positions and memorabilia with her, and any old photographs or belongings that hadn't been taken had been packed away, leaving there very little that would give anybody much of a clue that somebody else had lived there with John

Once in John's no-longer-shared bedroom Sherlock immediately pulled himself flush against the older man, slamming their mouths together, grabbing fistfuls of clothes, yanking John's jumper up over his head while still trying to kiss him, almost suffocating him in the process, giggling together like over-excited teenagers, his long fingers finding the skin at John's collar, which danced under the younger man's touch, his other arm fining it's way to coil around John's waist.

The backs of Sherlock's knees collided with the edge of the bed, sending both of them toppling back onto the mattress, giggling still louder, fighting a raging war against buttons an fabrics to settle an undesirable urge for the feel of skin on skin, and it didn't take long for all offending garments to be stripped from them, a sudden nervous dreading flashing to the forefront of Sherlock's mind. Freezing completely still, a building cold dread growing heavier upon his heart, compression his lungs so much that he momentarily forgot to inhale.

"What's wrong?" he heard John whisper form above him, missing the feel of John's lips against his own as they had been only moments previously.

"Nothing."

"Sher-"

"Nothing." Raising his voice a little, tilting his head upwards a little in order to see John's concerned face staring down at him as if he were the most precious thing to ever come into existence, that he was so fragile he was too scared to even hold him too hard for fear of smashing him into a thousand fragments and scattering. Raising his hand to John's head, he traced to ever more present worry-lines on his forehead there. He would be the death of John Watson, he knew that. Actually managing a genuine smile – which he noticed did actually cause the worry-lines to decrease ever so slightly – he leant up to gently press another kiss to John's parted lips.

Guiding him almost, Sherlock took hold of John's hand, gently letting the palm trace down to his leg, the fingers tracing through the flimsy school trouser materiel, and it was so unlike him that John was almost shocked. Shocked, but with no objections at all, his tongue toying gently with Sherlock's bottom lip.

He knew where this was going. He wasn't naive, and it would be by no means the first time he had been in a position like this one. Only this time was different, this time he was scared. This time it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock and not just another short-term no-strings-attached kind of thing, this was very different.

There was an unusual pink flush upon Sherlock's usually bloodless cheeks, nipping at John's lip lightly before breaking apart, shifting on the bed rather awkwardly, fumbling with sheets that clung to his limbs, conscious about the beads of sweat erupting from his forehead, his palms growing clammy as his blood ran cold with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Positioning the back of his own body against John's front, taking the older man's hand as he did and twining his fingers with John's.

"Wait..."

Flicking his head around, catching sight of John looking so concerned was almost enough to rid him of all his fear, and he actually grinned, pressing a brief kiss to John's cheek "You talk too much." He informed him in a matter-of-fact tone.

Positioning himself – which was significantly harder than he had anticipated – his hands shaking awkwardly, steadying his shallow breathing. Gracing his lips across the back of Sherlock's neck, easing him down and leaning over.

He starts slowly, with military-like precision , his breath hitching, each muscle becoming taught, careful not to cause Sherlock any pain, though wishing he could see the look on the boy's face more than anything, a thick groan emitting from Sherlock's mouth taking him by surprise and filling him with an overwhelming sense of pride. Fully sheathed, he remained stationary for several moments, too scared to move, to scared to even breath properly, taking sharp shallow breaths, overwhelmed by the heat and the feel of it all, to have Sherlock here like this. Rocking gently to begin the newly established rhythm having Sherlock writhing and groaning beneath him, and John knew that neither of them were going to be able to last for very long, his thrusts becoming increasingly more erratic.

It was surreal, as if they were becoming one, once body, mind and soul, moving in unison while John leant to trail wet kisses down the vertebra protruding from Sherlock's back, causing a sharp hiss to escape Sherlock's lips. Bare skin rubbing against one another , sweating in urgent earnest with limbs entwined, rubbing almost harshly. The pounding of both their hearts beating in unison as Sherlock came in think strands, the sensation taking over his entire body as if he were possessed and throwing his head back in a content sigh, which in itself was enough to send John spiralling down himself, his knees buckling, groaning the boy's name through clenched teeth.

Sherlock mumbled something which sounded like it could have been a confession of love, which was heavily masked by his larboard panting , a ringing in his ears, closing his eyes slowly, feeling John roll off him and come to rest down beside him, laying side-by-side it was Sherlock who spoke first, feeling the need to interject something of the happy giddy feeling which was making butterflies dance in his stomach, though being unable to quite find the right words "thank you."

"Huh?" John breathed , rolling again so the front of his body was pressed against Sherlock's side, his head lolling onto the younger man's shoulder.

Chuckling Sherlock quickly dipped his head to press a kiss to John's sandy hair "I said thank you." He repeated, a fraction louder and clearer than before.

"That's a strange thing to say." John remarked, giggling himself "But then you are slightly strange, Sherlock Holmes." Raising a weak finger to gently run the tip across the length of Sherlock's nose "Hungry?"

"You literally had tea less than fifteen minute ago." Sherlock answered incredulously, grinning like an idiot and slowly sitting up.

"Sorry." John smiled up at him, holding up his palms in a mock surrender.

"Go on then." Shoving John away from him, though playfully, definitely without malicious intent "I'll be right here."

Sitting up slowly, John dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, hauling himself into a standing position and hoisting his black work trousers back into place, leaning to give Sherlock a quick kiss before leaving.

Unable to stop the grin growing on his face, Sherlock stayed completely still, listening to his lover move around in the room below, not bothering to contain his sense of overwhelming pride and happiness, he could probably run for miles without stopping a single time with how exhilarated he felt right that moment. Combing his fingers through his dark curly hair he sat up properly now, hearing his phone bleep. Probably Greg wondering where he was, though he had told him that he wouldn't be there for at least a few hours after school finished. Slowly stretching out his long limbs, he dug into his trousers pocket – which were crumpled at around his knees – producing and flicking it in front of his eyes, his heart instantly sinking at the ID. All traces of the giddy happiness he had felt mere moments before had been snuffed out in less than a second, the warm pleasant feeling in his stomach quickly replaced by a sinking feeling of dread and despair, as if cold water had been injected into his veins. No. Not now, not now.

_Jim: come play the game x _

**I've been sitting on this chapter for about a week now, not really wanting to post it but it's been too long without a chapter so I owed you guys one, even if it was really bad, anyway I hope you all enjoyed that, thanks for reading, maybe you might consider posting a teeny tiny review? **


	28. A Father Who Must Be Killed

**Hey guys **

**More time between chapters, and in that time series 3 came and went (it was the best so far! I'm so glad I am part of this amazing fandom), 1 thing though was that Mary actually ended up being super badass and lovely, and so my Mary is very out of character which I do apologise for in case anybody gets angry with me. Yeah. **

**Anyway, on with the chapter, as this is the penultimate chapter, only 1 left. Technically this is the last chapter, the last one will simply be a rather long epilogue but significantly shorter chapter. So, on we go. Enjoy! **

**Love Micky xx**

**Chapter 27**

The previous week had passed rather uneventfully; in as many aspects of the word as was possible.

Numb. Numb was what he felt. The ever more cold and harsh familiar presence of a sinking feeling in Sherlock's gut had almost become a natural occurrence. Cold and unfriendly, as if an actual physical weight had taken hold of his ankles and rooted him in place, and no matter quite how hard he tried, the feeling was always there, from when he woke up in the morning right up until he lay awake in the black darkness unable to sleep. The horrible unnerving sensation of eyes constantly on him just added to everything, and he had taken to only existing inside the flat, leaving only when he really needed to, which had only been less than half a dozen times since school had ended.

He knew that he was most likely only being paranoid, but the incessant texting from Jim certainly did not help matters. Every day at 5:30 without fail. They weren't menacing at all, quite the opposite in fact, the type of texts a responsible and overly protective parent would send their child.

_Hello Sherlock. Had a good day? X_

_Hello Sherlock. Found your toothbrush, just in case you needed it x_

But it was the subtlety of the texts that bothered Sherlock so much. As if he and his godfather were playing some sadistic game of cat and mouse, in which all of the odds were inevitably stacked in Jim's favour. He was the gamemaker, the puppet master, manipulating the rules of his own little game so that it was virtually impossible for his young godson to have a hope in hell of playing better than he did. What did he want? Everybody wanted something, even if it was only the simple pleasure that came with victory, to watch your opponent squirm at your feet. It was that without a shred of doubt, but there was something else. Something much deeper and sinister, there always was with Jim. Or maybe he just wanted to watch to watch the world burn.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

His mind began to drift, as it most often did, back to Carl Powers. Little Carl, who had died too young for frivolous reasons. He hadn't deserved that. If he'd lived, he would be enjoying the long summer holiday now, with his family and many, many friends. Sherlock had met Carl's family only once rather briefly, not so long after he had lost his own family in fact. They were nice people, decent people, with simple drama-free lives. Oh how he had envied Carl then. Little Carl, with his perfect family, how likable and friendly and talented he had been. Look at them now. Only one still alive and standing with the other cremated into ashes soon to be scattered. And not the way around that everybody would have suspected that they would end up either. Sherlock didn't exactly believe in God as such, but rather oddly, he found himself wishing that wherever Carl may be now it was a nice place.

Ugh, _sentiment_.

He'd promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn't make the mistake of caring about someone or something that he couldn't save. But this was not quite caring. As disrespectful as others may accuse him of being for it, he was genuinely interested in Carl's death. How an apparently healthy boy could just one day drop dead was something even he had difficulty understanding. Oh Jim was clever. He had planted that idea in Sherlock's head that very day they had been in the pool. He must have known that Sherlock would fall for it, he knew that he had always loved a good mystery. And you can't kill an idea. Not once it's nestled inside the very fabric of your thought and made a nice cosy home there. He wanted Sherlock to figure it out, he wanted to test to see just how good he really was, observe and study his tactics to conclude if the boy truly was a worthy adversary.

Snapping his eyes closed, Sherlock thought hard, trying to visualise Carl in his mind, which was easy enough, making mental notes on what he looked like, how he walked, spoke, moved, his voice, his face, his smile. The common denominator had always been hidden in plain sight. If only... Oh! Of course...

His pulse instantly accelerated, Sherlock shoving his hand deep into his trouser pocket, pulling his mobile out, his fingers shaking, hastily stabbing at the keys to formulate the words on the screen. Of course! How had he not realised before? It had been staring him straight in the face. Oh stupid, stupid Sherlock!

_Shoes _send

He sat now on the edge of the seat, anxiously awaiting the reply, which took very little over a minute, the phone screen illuminating, snatching it back up to read the two words on the screen that seemed to burn holes in his eyes as he stared.

_Clever boy _it read.

Clever boy. How many times Jim had said those exact words to him Sherlock had lost count a long time ago. It wasn't remotely malevolent or cruel, not by purpose anyway. A genuine complement, as if he were impressed that his godson had finally caught up so that the real fun could now begin.

The phone flashed up again, now reading: _come and play the game Sherlock. I know just how much you love school xxx _

Barts would be empty by now, besides the teachers still milling around, John most likely already on his way home himself.

Sherlock did not move, didn't even twitch or flinch his eyes. The scales had fallen and at long last the jigsaw seemed to be coming together. Where was it? He had it somewhere, he remembered Mycroft giving it to him, the little card, he did have it. Thinking hard to retrace his steps he could distinctly recall his brother handing it to him outside of Barts there on that warm afternoon, and had told him to use it in case he might ever need or want his brother. Now was that time.

He had definitely put it in his pocket and come back here. Rubbing his temples with his thumbs as he retraced his steps, he remembered flicking the card into his drawer with the intent of never looking at it for as long as he lived. Jumping to his feet as if he had been electrocuted, he sprang to his drawers, tapping his fingers against the hard wood as if in mid-symphony. Producing the card with impressively still fingers, flicking the phone in front of his eyes, stabbing at the numbers there. His breath hitching in his throat as he pressed the phone to his ear, the unmistakable sound of ringing echoing in his ear.

He _could _hang up before Mycroft even had time to answer, or even look at who was calling. He could. He almost did. He didn't want to talk to Mycroft, not his idiot older brother. But everybody had to do things that they didn't like at some point, right? It could just go straight to voice mail after all, as the ringing began to reach it's close...

"_Sherlock?" _too late.

For a split second, Sherlock completely forgot why he was calling his brother in the first place "You know what my number is?" he asked confused. What else did Mycroft know? Had he been keeping tabs on him? Sherlock was surprised that he was surprised. Of course he had been keeping tabs on him, it was just such a _Mycroft_ thing to do. In fact he was beginning to wonder, if there was in fact, anything that Mycroft did not know. The silence of his brother on the other end of the phone was enough to answer all of those questions. Sherlock found, he did not actually particularly want to know exactly how Mycroft had got his slippery hands on Sherlock's information.

Remembering why he had called, he chanced the question "can I ask for a favour?"

"_Oh yes."_ Overly enthusiastic, usually a bad sign _"What do you need?" _

"I..." it was odd actually saying the words out loud, to move his lips and actually physically voicing the words that had been chasing one another around his head "I think..." only now did he realise probably just how stupid and paranoid this would make him sound "I think I'm going to die."

Nothing but stunned silence greeted these words, a silence which seemed to drag on forever, and in fact it took around thirty seconds for Mycroft to apparently gain some form of composure, as the next time Sherlock heard his brother' s voice crackling down the line he was back to the Mycroft that he remembered from when he was young, astute and businesslike, as if closing some kind of deal _"Where are you?"_

"Um, I'm at home." He answered quite honestly "I was just about to leave..."

"_No! Stay exactly where you are, please!"_ Mycroft's cut in before Sherlock could continue any more _"Sherlock, what happened?"_

"I need to go. I mean, there's something that I need to do..." Sherlock tried to protest, annoyed now, he wouldn't have called Mycroft in the first place if he had known that he would just be like this.

"_Just... Sherlock, _where_ are you going?" _

He almost didn't tell him, and he could just as easily not done, but his lips seemed to pull of their own accord, to form the words "St Bartholomew's." Hanging up the phone less then a split second after he uttered the words, instantly feeling the need to repel the phone away from him, letting it slip through his slack fingers and land with a dull thud onto the floor.

He let it lay there, face down on the floor, unable to quite look directly at it as the ringing echoed dully against the floor. Obviously Mycroft trying to get a hold of him, convince him to stay where he was and not leave. He sat completely motionless as the phone rang out, only to be replaced by a silence that rang in his ears much louder than the phone had.

Then, as if he were a light bulb suddenly sputtering into life, bounding to his feet –resulting in faint light-headedness which he ignored – walking with the air of a man possessed, not bothering with a jacket, it would be too hot in any case. In fact he was only half aware of his actions until at the door where Greg's suspicious face greeted him, he must have only just arrived because Sherlock hadn't heard him "hey, where do you think you're off to?" Greg questioned, his brow furrowed in curiosity, tossing his door keys into the tray by the door itself.

"Oh um..." taking less than a split seconds thinking time to come up with an acceptable excuse "I have to go and get something from school."

Greg gave him a look, a look as if to say that he knew that there was absolutely no way that Sherlock was being truthful about this so-called object that needed collecting "You know, you could have given me a ring, I was there the whole day, I could have picked it up for you."

"I know, I just needed a walk."

"A _walk_?" Greg questioned, raising his eyebrows in a disbelieving fashion, brushing past Sherlock into the flat "Well, ok, but be back by six."

Sherlock nodded rather absentmindedly, not really paying all that much attention, stepping outside the door and closing the door on Greg, inhaling deeply.

His legs did not seem to need ay instructions, taking him step-by-step to where they wanted him to go, on the route that he had taken scores and scores of times before, every morning and evening, he found that he didn't even need to think about it, just let him feet guide him to the destination he needed to reach.

Needed? Well he certainly didn't want to be there in any case. What exactly he did want was to know. To know how and why this had all been happening, and what he could possibly have done that could have caused this all to happen. He wanted to know what exactly it was that Jim wanted, why he wanted it, and what he, Sherlock, would or could have to do about it. The ever familiar and increasing sense of doom was setting in again. Though probably for one of the first times a sickening thrill accompanied it. Like when you stand right on the edge of the top of a large drop, the quick beating of your heart as the knowledge of peril. A cocktail of nausea, ecstasy and terror at the knowledge that you could jump. It made him feel alive, and that scared him in more ways than he could say.

He felt like he was in danger, after all it was hardly like Jim had never hurt him before. But this was more than that, this was genuine terror for his own life, completely unprovoked and irrational in the eyes of many. In the eyes of those who did not truly know the type of person that Jim Moriarty was, and the lengths that he would go to achieve his ends, to get the happily ever after to his little fairytale.

He found himself at the empty but ajar gates of Barts and started, taking a few seconds to fully register where exactly he was. Jim hadn't specified where exactly he would be, but had several ideas gnawing away at his thoughts as to where he might be waiting for him. Jim had always liked thrills and had done so for as long as Sherlock had known him, even know remembering how he had been dragged up onto a very peak for the Dover cliffs by Jim and his father at the meek age of five years old. There was nothing remotely thrilling about a school. In fact that almost entirely defeated the purpose of school. Jim would be waiting for him in the very place that meant the most risk. Risk and danger, that was what Jim got-off on.

Standing warily at the foot of the building, he placed his hands rather ceremoniously on his bony hips, lifting his head back as his eyes scowered the building.

Hit by a sudden sick realisation, he tore up the stairs at the side of the building. He knew. Somehow, he knew exactly where to go.

The school was not tall, at the most having only three floors in the highest of places, the library being the very highest room in the school. Sherlock had learnt in his first year that leading off the library was a very well concealed hatch which lead to the roof, a fact that he had banked in his brain to use for future reference – though how exactly that knowledge may have come in useful he hadn't really known until now. He knew that Jim knew, him being the person who had told him about it in the first place.

The librarians had already packed up and left by this point, the door to the library located at the very top of a rather steep set of stairs – left ajar. Trail of breadcrumbs - as it were. Pushing on the wood of the door gently with his open palm it swung open. The library was disserted, though this was as he had expected so he was not surprised. The library was widely known in the school for its eerie creepiness, and was somehow bathed in shadows even though bright sunlight streamed through cloudy glass windows on which there sat layers of film. The shadows climbed the walls, on which were lined countless dusty volumes. No wonder barely any students actually went there unless it was an absolute necessity.

Tiptoeing his way through, he tried to enforce as little pressure as he could onto floor. There were still people at the school, various teachers and so on, and the last thing that Sherlock wanted right now was to draw attention to the fact that a teenager who no longer attended the school was now sneaking around in the empty library, and that the only two people who knew he was there other than himself was his psychotic godfather and overly controlling brother who practically ran the British government.

The hatch – similarly to the door leading into the library – had been left open, filling the room with an airy summer breeze, though it felt like the icy pellets of winter gails beating against Sherlock's exposed skin as he approached the hatch, swinging himself up with the assistance of the tiny step ladder beneath it.

He heard him before he saw him, the voice ringing out across the roof before the figure came fully into focus, dressed from head to foot in black, his hair scraped back from his face as it always was when Jim Moriarty really meant business "hello laddie." The Irish twang in his voice somehow ringing much more prominently than it had previously "just you and me now lad, and our problem."

"What do you want Jim?" Sherlock spoke rather coldly, he would not negotiate with Jim, not today.

"Isn't it obvious?" Jim said, giggling menacingly as Sherlock's brow furrowed "I want to solve this," indicating the space between himself and his godson "this thing between us, this problem we have."

"It's a problem that you-"

Holding up his hand to silence him, making Sherlock grow considerably less bold, the smile slid off Jim's face to be replaced by a somewhat serious expression "don't put little labels on me Sherlock, some people might consider it rude to do that."

"I'm sorry." Approaching him slowly, holding his hands at around waist level in case he had to run or defend himself, even though his legs felt like lead was weighting them down "what do you want to talk about?"

Remaining silent, Jim edged closer to Sherlock himself now, reaching out his hand as if to ask Sherlock to shake it. Sherlock's eyes flicked briefly to Jim's stretched out hand, to his earnest face, on which there appeared to be a genuinely sincere smile. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough for Sherlock to momentarily trust him, reaching out his own hand to grasp Jim's in a firm handshake, though releasing his hold on the hand significantly quicker than he would have in ordinary circumstances with any other person. "Just a little chat." Jim answered upon the release of his hand "You'll be going away soon." He said, a statement rather than a question.

"Not far." Sherlock added quite truthfully in his defence.

"Too far." Jim snapped mere milliseconds after Sherlock had finished talking "but then again, I always that you would. You're much too wild, you can't be tied down."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, instead finding that he had nothing to say, though Jim held up his index finger, dipping it from side to side to silence him before words even left his mouth "Tell me, do you dream much Sherlock?" a wicked smile contorting over his lips.

Sherlock was confused by this question, his jaw dropping slightly, gaping at his godfather in slight disbelief "Should I?"

"Hmm." He smile continuously growing, his gaze flicking over Sherlock, drinking in his appearance "Well most humans do dream quite a lot. But then again," exhaling rather loudly, as if mocking a sigh "You're not exactly the most _human _of people are you Sherlock?"

"Neither are you."

"Oh," scoffing rather loudly "no need for compliments, laddie."

"Well I'm sure that you get them all the time anyway."

"Yes I do," Jim answered, somehow managing to make this remark appear much less arrogant than it was "and I'm sure that you don't, not unless they're from dear Johnny Boy."

He was right of course, the only people who had even made him feel like he was actually worth _something_ were John and Greg somewhat. It was really only them who knew the real Sherlock Holmes, only them who knew the type of person that he really was. He was something of a mystery in himself, and he wanted to keep it that way, it illuminated the possibility of being forced to make friends.

The smile was back on Jim's face now. Twisting, creeping and contorting his lips "How is John?"

Sherlock's blood ran cold, his whole body becoming brittle and his gaze snapping upwards "What did you do?" he demanded with a malicious hiss. If John had come close to anything he swore...

"Nothing, nothing." Jim tittered, raising his arms as if surrendering "I can assure you Sherlock, that I have done nothing at all to hurt John Watson."

Sherlock did relax a little, because though he knew all too well that he couldn't put it past Jim to leave John alone, he knew what was liar looked like, and this man before him was not lying "he's safe?"

"Frankly Sherlock, I don't want to waste my time talking about your beloved John Watson." Jim said, beginning to sound slightly annoyed, apparently losing interest in the current pace and subject of the conversation "He is just so _boring. _I'm not interested in him, or any other _ordinary _people." He paused for a moment or two, regarding his godson with an expression that one could have argued resembled fondness "But you. You're not ordinary, are you Sherlock?" not bothering to wait for an answer, he pushed straight on, taking a step forward so he and Sherlock were almost nose to nose, placing both hands on Sherlock's shoulders, instantly trapping him in place, as if his hands were colossal weights fit to suffocate him under staggering force. Jim's probing gaze found Sherlock's icy-blue one and he smiled, his grotesque warped smile "you're not boring, like John, or like the other ordinary people, you're just like me."

"No."

Jim's brow furrowed, though not in confusion, his expression was one of undoubted disappointment and he exhaled rather steadily, his breath brushing softly across the skin of Sherlock's cheek causing a cascade of shivers to run down his spine "oh no, I suppose you couldn't be, could you?"

The confused Sherlock. What was he talking about? Sherlock could remember from when he'd lived at 221b with Jim, he had been prone to mumble nonsense when nobody else was actually saying anything. But then again, Sherlock couldn't say that was peculiar, having had several rather extensive and interesting – albeit one sided – conversations with a skull.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm disappointed." Jim said flippantly, as if this remark was designed to hurt Sherlock "I'm disappointed in you, _ordinary _Sherlock. You're just like everybody else, you're on the side of the angels."

And what exactly that was supposed to mean, in all his vast knowledge, Sherlock really did not know.

"So were mummy and daddy, you know." Jim added, sucking down on his bottom lip "Just like you. Not so much Myke, but there's always one bad seed." He added, crinkles forming at the top of his nose "So seen Myke recently?"

There really was no point in lying, he most likely knew in any case, in fact he had probably known Sherlock would be seeing his brother again, even before he did. "Once."

"Ah that's nice isn't it? Sort out all of your issues?"

"Me and my brother have too many issues to sort of out over a period of fifteen minutes, _James_." Hissing on the last word, the entire sentence uttered through gritted teeth.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the use of his full name, Jim did not pursue the subject, instead deciding to cut straight to the chase, answering the unasked question that had brought them up here in the first place "So you figured it out? Little Carl and the swimming pool?"

"Shoes." Sherlock breathed. And in spite of himself, he felt proud. Proud that he had figured it out, must be his narcissistic side emerging as it ever so often did and that people despised him for. "Carl had eczema." He didn't elaborate any more than that, he didn't need to.

"very good. Very good." Clapping his palms together twice before twiddling his fingers between one another.

"Was there anyone else?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"Anyone else _who_?" Jim asked vaguely, apparently losing interest again now the case had been closed.

No bothering to spell it out for him, Sherlock clapped his palms rather loudly together to draw back his godfather's attention "yes, anybody else? How many others? How many innocent people died because of you?" all of this was said very quickly, the volume of his voice heightening with each syllable until he was practically shouting.

Jim looked positively delighted, as if Sherlock had just diverged the most glorious piece of information possible, the abhorrent sparking returning to his eyes, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth "not bad, you got that one as well... took you a while, but well done."

His eyebrows knitting together in confusion, Sherlock approached the edge of the building, getting closer to where Jim stood, right at the edge of the rather tall concrete building, which did not seem to faze Jim in a single way. Sherlock was determined not to let his own fear show, and largely succeeded, excluding several tell-tail drops of perspiration beginning to glitter on his forehead and temples.

He hated heights.

He always had.

"sure wish that your dear old mummy and daddy had figured that out before you did , I bet?" Jim breathed, in a voice only barely audible, only just caught off the wind by Sherlock who froze completely and utterly still.

Mummy and daddy?

A cascade of deathly cold shivers ran down his spine, like diving head long into a bath of ice. Every muscle in his body becoming taught, as his gaze appeared magnetically drawn to his godfather, unable to pull his gaze away from Jim, who's own eyes flicked lazily over Sherlock, apparently finding interest in menial things like the floor or tapping his toes rhythmically "Why are you looking at me like that Sherlock?" he asked again, sounding bored, but Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to care what exactly Jim thought of him in that exact moment – or indeed in any moment. His whole life he had been searching for answers to questions that were constantly beating around the inside of his skull, all his life chasing answer after answer. If he deserved anything at that moment, it was the answer to his own question, the question that had been playing on his mind year after year, tracing all the way back to that one street corner on that one particular night when he was eight years old. The day that everything had changed.

"Was it you?"

"Oh no." Jim tutted "You should never answer a question with a question." Giggling like a maniac, apparently greatly enjoying the discomfort he was blatantly causing "awfully rude, don't you know?

Sherlock did not want to deal with this, not right now "was it you?" he hissed through his teeth, fixing his psychotic godfather with a cold glare.

Jim did not answer straight away. Just smiled, that twisted crocked smile that sent tremors running through Sherlock's whole body "What did I do Sherlock?" and he said it like a dare, he already knew the answer, he just wanted to see if he could ask him, if he was _brave _enough to ask him.

"My parents." And it was not a question.

With a childish giggle, Jim let out a long hard sigh, a smile splitting across his face, the hollow echoing of his tongue clacking against his teeth being the only sound he uttered. His toes were right up against the edge of the building now, swaying dangerously, almost as if he was daring himself to jump "clever boy Sherlock. What a clever boy you are."

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, every single millisecond being played out a tenth of its original time. And he couldn't move from the edge of the building, a white hot anger boiling up inside him, pure, adultered, rage building up in every single nerve ending in his body, sparking like live wires. But he couldn't more, he was completely frozen in place, as if being weighed down by invisible weights, all that he could do was stand and watch as it all flashed before him like a series of photographs.

A shot. An echoing bang that brought a fresh wave of ringing in his ears. That was all it took. And all he could do was scream. Scream and scream and scream, until the sound just blended with the dead ringing silence.

And suddenly he stopped. And he was afraid. Terrifying blinding fear rooted him to the spot, his legs ledded down. To frightened to move. To frightened to even utter the slightest whimper. This fear was new. Fear that tied him to the spot and made his blood run cold. All his nerves were dead, shut off and dried out, completely cutting off any possible reaction to stimulus. He couldn't seem to see, all the gleaming before his eyes was meshed into a mass of shapes and shadows. Noise dying before it could reach his ears, a ringing echo of the gunshot cascading around his hollow head. He couldn't think straight, couldn't think at all. All there was was fear. He was barely even aware that he was shaking, though he couldn't raise his arms or even move his head, or shift his eye line as the dark red blood pooled only the floor, running at his feet until it felt like a red current ready to drag his under. His breathing coming in sharp shallow breaths, he could feel his knees shaking as if he were about to keel over completely. But he couldn't fall, not from this height, drop like glass and smash upon the floor.

He could do it. He really could. It would only take one step. One tiny little step, and he would never have to feel this ever again. Never have to feel so hurt, like his very heart had been ripped from his chest and crushed before his eyes. He would never have to be afraid again, or hurt again, he wouldn't be constantly lost, wandering around in his own head with the constant urge to cut or take something, anything. That would all go away. Everything would just go away. He wouldn't have to feel like he was disappointing everybody that he had ever loved anymore.

But he would disappoint them. John and Greg and – to a certain extent – his own brother.

Mummy and daddy. He wanted them, he wanted to see their faces again, and have them hold him like they had all those years ago. He wanted his parents.

But he had John now. Brilliant, stupid, idiot John.

One step. That was all it would take. One step and it would all be finished.

He felt one single drop of moisture that had been clinging to his eye drop free onto his cold cheek, but he didn't wipe it away. He didn't move at all.

And suddenly everything was alive again, the bright colours of the sunset splashed across his eye line like ink onto a page, and he was crying, and he was laughing, and shaking so violently it was a miracle that he hadn't lost his balance before as he felt strong arms encase him in a tight embrace, dragging his limp body away from the edge of the building and into the centre of the floor. His knees finally giving way and he fell to the floor, hearing but unable see John. Mycroft, it had to have been Mycroft that had called John, he knew John would come running. Yelling at him, feeling John's clammy palms tapping feverishly across is cheeks, and he wanted to say that everything was okay, and that John didn't need to worry, but the words would not surface on his lips and John's arms wound around him again in a rib-breaking hug.

**Yeah, really not happy with this one (as I am with most chapters but hey ho). One more chapter after this one, hopefully should be up as soon as possible. In the meantime, a little review would make me one very happy author. **


	29. Epilogue

**Epilogue: Four Years Later **

The young man stood underneath the rather large light-up board flashing up train times at King's Cross Station.

He was a rather tall man, slim but well built with defined facial features: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, hollow cheeks and Cupid 's Bow lips. He was dressed smartly in slim fitting satin formal wear, a knee length coat carried under his arm. The man's face gave no impression or suggestion of being nervous, though the avid tapping of his fingers against his thigh betrayed his otherwise stony appearance.

He had not been standing under the board for very long at all, but leaning down to gently flock his watch around to check the time, the rigorous tapping became significantly more erratic, he seemed to be waiting for somebody, though nobody turned to look at him, or even acknowledge him for any other purpose other than to avoid walking directly into him, and this seemed to suit him just fine.

After all, socialising had never been his strong point.

In fact he still struggled with it now, just closing his second year sitting Chemistry and Forensic Science at Cambridge. His neuroticism being one of the few things which had remained the same about him over the last few years. That and a few other things, one of which happened to be the very reason for which he was waiting here, under this light-up board at this very train station on this particular day.

What had happened after that fatal night on top of Barts roof was now something of a ledged within the school, the details of which Sherlock seemed unable to condense down to a definitive truth, and for as long as he could remember trying to recall the events of the next few days he was simply unable to do it. He had been in a severe state of shock, that much he did know. And he knew that he must have collapsed as well because he had found a significant number of dark purple bruises clustered about his body once he had finally become aware of his surroundings.

From what he had been told afterwards, he had been standing on the ledge of the building, his toes quite literally tipping over the edge, with tears streaming down his cheeks, his dead godfather some three feet away from him, a bullet wound through his head. Mycroft had been hysterical, calling John and mere five minutes after Sherlock had left, who had rushed to Greg's the moment he had been informed as to what was going on, and then straight to school after that, where he had found Sherlock on the roof himself. It had been John up there who had snatched Sherlock before he could jump. To this day, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if he would have actually jumped, and he supposed that he never truly would known, looking back now he was glad that he hadn't, though at the same time, the defining details were best left to the imagination. What was for certain was that after he had been grabbed and dragged away from the edge he had completely blacked out. His eyes had been open, he was awake and definitely alive, but he had not been present. John had slapped him repeatedly, yelled and screamed at him incessantly for several minutes before Mycroft caught up with them, attempting to wake his brother himself before ordering him to be taken away and Jim's flat on Baker's Estate to be searched within the hour.

But by the time officials had reached Jim's flat Seb and Irene were already gone, and from general inspection of the flat it could be concluded that they had not been there for several days, in fact at least a week. To this day nobody was entirely sure where exactly they had gone, though Sherlock had the unmistakable hunch that Irene had gone back to her America Wall Street stockbroker husband, and Seb was off in Eastern Europe somewhere. He wouldn't be surprised if he never saw or heard from them a whisper from either of them again for as long as he lived, and in all honesty he didn't really care all that much.

They could run, and he would let them.

They weren't necessarily bad people, they had just made bad choices, and his did hope now that they saw the error of their ways and made the right ones, even if he did never see them again. It didn't bother him, not anymore.

He had stayed at the hospital for just over six weeks. It had taken him around a week to regain complete consciousness, to become fully aware of his surroundings: where he was and what had happened to him. It had all taken quite a while to sink in, but within two weeks he was more or less well and about as sane as he had been before the incident, constantly escaping his ward and wandering around the hospital, which had greatly infuriated doctors and nurses alike.

That had amused John to no end, who had visited him most days.

"Hello." The sound of the ever so familiar voice wrenched him out of his dream like state of remembrance, and momentarily startled, it took him several seconds before smiling and turning to see the smile he knew so well in return "You look good." John noted, indicating with his hand, rather awkwardly, Sherlock just rolled his eyes leaning down – for he had grown significantly around the time of his eighteenth birthday – to quickly scoop John into a hug, clapping his hand against the older man's back.

He held him there in his arms for so long that people even began to stare. To hell with them! Let them stare, he didn't care. He just held John there, inhaling his scent and re-familiarising himself with the way it felt to have John back in his arms.

"Shall we?" John asked quite breathlessly once Sherlock had finally loosened his embrace enough for them to break apart. Sherlock was glad to see that he hadn't changed at all, despite only having been separated from him for little more than a month.

Nodding, Sherlock reached down to twine their fingers together.

**The End **

**Well that was fun. Sorry that the ending was so cliché but I ran out of creative inspiration, just hoped that you guys all enjoyed it. I just want to thank everybody for following/favouriting, and your reviews truly do mean the world to me. So thank you to you all! **


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